


The MW Killer

by Sy1as



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Parent Martin Whitly, Branding, Burns, Case Fic, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fluff, Gil Arroyo Acting as Malcolm Bright's Parental Figure, Good Parent Gil Arroyo, Good Parent Jessica Whitly, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Hospitals, Hurt Malcolm Bright, Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Kidnapped Malcolm Bright, Kidnapping, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Malcolm is not having a good time, Martin Whitly Being an Asshole, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Dani Powell, Protective Gil Arroyo, Protective JT Tarmel, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Serial Killers, Team Feels, Torture, Worried Gil Arroyo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:49:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 41,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29590971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sy1as/pseuds/Sy1as
Summary: A new killer makes himself known; taunting and teasing the major crimes department, as well as dropping bodies left and right. Multiple nights without sleep, trying to get the threat of their newest killer off the streets in a timely manner, leaves Dani, Gil and JT a bit more irritated than usual.Malcolm seems to be the one taking the brunt of said irritation-- and if his childhood being a serial killer's son had taught him anything, it's how to second guess his relationships when people start getting annoyed with him.It never really did take a lot to send Malcolm into a downward spiral. It's hard to miss though, as his father's voice fills his head with snide remarks, and a sinking feeling of anxiety settles in his chest. It's too bad someone else gets to Malcolm before Malcolm can get to someone for help.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright & Dani Powell & JT Tarmel, Malcolm Bright & Dani Powell, Malcolm Bright & Edrisa Tanaka, Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel, Malcolm Bright & Jessica Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly
Comments: 50
Kudos: 170





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So, I found the beginning of this fic on my Microsoft Word account, and I can't for the life of me remember why I stopped working on it? After a quick reread, I've decided that I think it's actually pretty good, so I'm posting and continuing it. :3 I started it sometime before season one ended, and the time frame is right after Malcolm and the team find the Junkyard Killer, but before anything can progress with him. 
> 
> I really just want to bully Malcolm a bit, and then give him hugs and support he deserves because he's baby. Hurt/comfort is my favorite thing, and Malcolm Bright is my all time favorite character.
> 
> Anywho! Enjoy :)

“Can you just stop, Bright? Seriously.” 

Malcolm’s mouth snapped shut with a click of his teeth, mouth flattening to a straight line as he bowed his head submissively. He settled back in his seat, hands intertwining and settling in his lap like a scolded child. 

Dani hadn’t looked up from where she was hunched over their newest string of murders. Gil, nor JT seemed to even catch Dani’s irritated snap at the newest member of their team, both with their noses buried in the same case. 

They were probably just thankful it was Dani he was pestering instead of either of them. To be fair, he’d been making his rounds checking on his teammates. Dani just happened to be the one to snap. A bit surprising, since Malcolm would’ve placed his money on JT being the first to tell him off. 

He knew he shouldn’t take it to heart-- she was stressed. They all were. 

It was… tense in the major crimes department. 

Their newest killer, the MW Slasher as they’d dubbed him (whom they still refused to admit was a serial killer, hoping they could get it handled before having to worry the public), had been dropping bodies left and right _daily_. 

So far, there was several victims; all young women in their early twenties. 

Their killer had a type-- blonde hair, blue eyes. Pretty. Thin. Not much lined up with their victims besides physical features. Their killer was going off looks, picking supposedly random girls up off the streets who fit his taste. 

There wasn’t a lot for Malcolm to build his profile with-- the victims were found in different places, came from different parts of the city, had different occupations, backgrounds and family heritage. They’d found no links between the girls whatsoever. 

The only thing tying the victims to the MW Slasher was their similar cause of death-- one swift slit across the throat-- and the branding left on the inner part of their right wrist. 

A sloppy _MW_ burned into their flesh with a heated iron stamp, not much different than a horse branding. 

The branding was cocky-- some hidden message. It meant something-- Malcolm just didn’t know what. 

MW could mean a lot of things, so it didn’t dwindle their suspect pool down much. 

There weren’t many stables or farms in the vicinity of New York, and none were owned by anyone with the initials MW. They still didn’t know what the MW stood for-- what it could mean, and that drove Malcolm insane. 

He couldn’t know all the answers, he knew, but the killer was just taunting them now. Throwing them bones that they hadn’t the slightest idea what to do with. 

It was a game. 

The killer was clean. Thoughtful. Left no finger prints. Nothing they could use to identify him, besides the MW scorched on the victim’s wrists, and that got the team nowhere. 

The MW Slasher had been the first active serial killer since Malcolm had joined Gil’s team as their profiler. Well, besides the Junkyard Killer, but he’d been killing for over twenty years-- this was the first active, _active_ killer. 

The Junkyard Killer was a threat, of course, but this killer was an active threat. Leaving bodies to be found. Taunting. He was challenging the authorities; playing games with them. He wanted attention-- was after something, where the Junkyard Killer had kept his work hidden for years. 

There was a scale of how much of a threat a killer was, as awful at that sounded-- and the MW Slasher had jumped to the top of that list with the body count quickly building up. They had to catch the killers doing the most damage first. 

The team was onto their third night of no sleep. Or, rather, their third night of refusing to leave the office. They crashed, falling asleep at the table, or leaned back against the wall. A few hours of sleep before they were back to it. 

It was usual for Malcolm, the insomniac that he was. The sleepless nights were more normal for him than actually sleeping was. He was accustomed to them. He rarely slept more than a couple hours on a good night, and on a bad night, well, he distracted himself instead. 

His team, he knew, were more normal than he was when it came to eating, and sleeping. Taking care of their basic human needs and all that. 

Twenty-four hours had been the quota as far as Malcolm had seen in the months he’d been working with them. 

Twenty-four hours and then Gil would be sending everyone away for the night. Telling them to take care of themselves, and that he needed them rested, bright-eyed and rearing to go the following morning. 

Gil was usually a stickler for making sure his team-- Dani and JT, at least-- took care of themselves. And he was usually pretty good at staying on top of keeping himself in order too. 

But he’d let it slide this time, knowing he couldn’t say anything if he was in the same boat as them. Malcolm wasn’t sure he’d ever seen the older man go longer that twenty-seven hours without sleep. 

But here he was, stretching to fifty-three. Malcolm had never seen a case break the man like this one was. The MW Slasher was getting to them-- he was getting to them all. They were playing into his games, just like every killer wanted, the police at their mercy. 

The strain of not sleeping was starting to get to his team, Malcolm had noticed. 

It was the little things he picked up on. 

Malcolm knew he wasn’t supposed to profile them, but he couldn’t help it. They all tended to close themselves off when he tried, but in this state none really gave him the time of day, so his profiling went unnoticed by the team. 

But Malcolm knew caffeine could only keep them going for so long, and the short, couple hour naps they managed to slip in whilst sat uncomfortably in their chairs would soon cease to help. 

He knew they were desperate to bring in the threat of the MW Slasher, but he couldn’t help but worry about them. He’d never had a team he cared about like he did this team. And he didn’t quite like them acting… well, so much like him. 

The circles under their eyes were growing darker by the second, and tremors that rivaled his own shook their hands-- a mixture of overdoing the caffeine, and their body’s desperate attempts to worry them into a good night’s sleep. 

They’d barely left the conference room they used for their cases, unless they happened to be reporting to new crime scenes when a new body happened to show up. 

Frankly the conference room was starting to smell. 

Malcolm had disappeared periodically over the fifty-three hours they’d been deadlocked on solving the case. Busying himself with more than just the crime scenes they were called too, unlike the rest of the team. 

He was still bathing, and would go on coffee runs for the team since the instant stuff in the break room was just awful. At this point, Malcolm wasn’t even sure they knew where the coffees that magically appeared in their hands, or in front of them were coming from. 

He’d furrow his eyebrows, watching as they worked themselves ragged. 

Some people just couldn’t handle lack of sleep as well as others. Their bodies were shutting down by the second, and Malcolm was worried they’d just drop to the floor in exhaustion like a bad game of The Sims. 

It was odd to be the voice of reason, especially since he was usually the one who needed the voice of reason. His team had all taken turns telling him to go home, or to eat at some point of another. And he appreciated it passed the in the moment annoyance he always felt. 

He’d only been trying to help when Dani had snapped at him. Sat forwards in his chair, head angled towards her as he all but begged her to finally call it a night. 

He’d done the same to Gil, who’d brushed him off gruffly, and to JT, who’d blatantly ignored him. It didn’t deter him, just forced him to continue on to the next teammate in the clockwise circle he was making. 

They’d give in at some point, they were only human after all. At some point the exhaustion would win over, but he knew he couldn’t pester too much at one time. They did all have guns strapped to their hips. 

They were getting frustrated, working so hard but getting no results. They were annoyed, and over-caffeinated-- more sleep deprived than Malcolm was sure any of them had ever been. 

And she’d snapped. 

Malcolm couldn’t help the sinking feel in his chest. The dread that weighed over him at her sharp words. They weren’t particularly mean, per se, but the bite in Dani’s tone definitely was. 

Dani had never snapped at him before. Not like this at least. 

He’d always thought she’d been far too kind to him-- all the way back to when he’d come clean about who he really was and all but begged The Surgeon Copycat to use him to finish The Quartet. 

She’d always been the closest to him, and if he thought anyone at the precinct was his friend (besides Gil, of course) it was Dani. He knew, in reality, they weren’t really friends. Teammates, there was a difference between the two. But he could hope that sometime they’d become friends. 

He liked Dani. He liked them all, and they didn’t hate him off the bat, which was more than he could ask for considering who he was. 

Logically, he knew it was all the sleep deprivation that had kicked in-- their irritation, the annoyance. They’d all been sending him annoyed looks through the last sixteen hours as he tried to talk them into heading home for the evening. 

He understood that-- 

But that didn’t stop the sinking feeling in his chest. 

Malcolm had spent the majority of his life being the disposable friend-- and that’s if he even managed to keep a friend longer than a couple weeks. 

People left him. 

It’s what happened. It’s what he’d grown to know. The usual. 

As soon as they found out who he was, and where he came from. The Surgeon’s prodigal son. People didn’t tend to stay long. The Whitly’s were like a plague- just the mention of them could clear a room. 

His mother and sister both shared the pain of being the _Whitly’s_ , and if anyone was going to be staying in Malcolm’s life, it was the people who understood what he was going through the best, because they too were trapped in the same nightmare. 

Gil, he could understand sticking around too. He’d known Gil since he was ten years old. He clung to the fact he’d saved Gil’s life-- that he wasn’t a monster like his father, because he’d saved Gil. His father would never-- in fact, he’d had a cup of ketamine laced tea with Gil’s name on it. 

Gil had stuck around then, and had for years-- being a safe spot for Malcolm through his childhood and supporting his decisions even if his father and his mother didn’t. Malcolm wasn’t sure there was anything that could break the connection he had to the police lieutenant. 

He was honestly surprised Dani, and JT and Edrisa stuck around. Or, at least treated him with kindness instead of the usual distaste when he joined their team. It was an odd, pleasant change of pace. He didn’t dread going to work anymore-- like he had every morning on his way to the FBI. 

They hadn’t been sure of him at first, but he thought they’d grown closer over the months of solving cases together. Even JT, who no longer gave him unsure once-overs when he entered a room. 

“Of course,” Malcolm swallowed, dropping his eyes away from the annoyed glance Dani shot at him. She looked tired-- done with everything, including him at this point. “Sorry.” 

He tried to remind himself it was the sleep-deprivation talking. The sleep-deprivation fueling the distasteful annoyance in her eyes. 

“Just… hush,” Dani eyed him a second longer before letting her eyes drop down to the file she was looking through, their first victim if Malcolm remembered correctly. The bite in her voice was gone, but the annoyance was still there. “We’re grownups, Bright, we can take care of ourselves.” 

JT snorted a laugh at Malcolm getting lectured after hours of him helicoptering around them. The youngest man coiled in on himself slightly, almost in embarrassment. 

Malcolm bit his lip to keep from saying something stupid, perhaps, and, just as an example, another mention of the genuine concern that had gotten him into this situation in the first place. Or, maybe, to remind them that his job was to profile, and that what he’d been getting from them over the span of the last few hours was definitely _not_ adults taking care of themselves. 

“We’re working the case, Bright,” Gil continued on without looking up from his own readings. His tone was chiding, the same tone he’d used when Malcolm had gotten rowdy during their stakeouts when he was a child. “Let us work.” 

Malcolm didn’t bother reminding the group that he’d been an actual FBI profiler who’d graduated with honors from Quantico-- that he knew what he was talking about and had worked higher risk cases. He was more than just the consultant they’d reluctantly allowed to work with them. 

This case was nothing compared to some of the things he’d seen in his ten years with the FBI. Sure, it was challenging, and infuriating-- the MW Slasher really was just jerking them around at this point, but it by far wasn’t the worst Malcolm had seen. 

He felt small in this room. 

Suddenly clouded by the fact he was just a consultant here. These three had been teammates for years-- Malcolm was like them. He was new, an outsider; not to be trusted. They were still wary about him, even if they’d all been working together perfectly well. 

He wasn’t really a part of the team, was he? 

**They’re not your friends.**

He squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to ignore the traitorous nagging voice, the one that sounded an awful lot like Doctor Martin Whitley, in the back of his mind. Malcolm’s knee jerked anxiously, hand quaking at the thought that his father was back. 

Even just the subconscious voice of the man in the back of Malcolm’s head was toxic. He’d never truly escape his father’s grasp. It was becoming clear to him. 

**Well, that’s because we’re the same, my boy.**

Malcolm scrunched his nose up, trying to brush away the thought. They weren’t. He’d never be the same as his father; as The Surgeon. 

**You’re not their friend either, Malcolm.**

A pause. His father’s words sinking in slowly. 

**You don’t need friends anyways, my boy. You have me.**

“Maybe take a walk, kid,” Gil sighed. His tired eyes were glossed with concern making him look older than he was. Malcolm tore his attention away from his own shaking limbs to glance around-- his team’s attention on him, varying levels of concern and annoyance. 

It was then, that Malcolm realized with a shock that the tables were turned onto him. Gil was telling him to take a break, when the man himself hadn’t taken more than a two-hour nap break in the last fifty-three hours. 

**Dismissal** , the voice tutted in the back of his mind, and Malcolm could almost picture his father’s indifferent frown, arms crossing across his chest. **They don’t want you here, my boy. Best to leave while you’re ahead, right?**

“Right,” Malcolm swallowed, standing up. The dismissal from Gil felt like a dagger stabbing into his chest, and the voice in the back of his head wasn’t helping the situation, “I’ll… I’ll just go make another coffee run then.” 

He grabbed his suit jacket off the back of his chair, pretending the silence he received from his team didn’t twist that metaphorical dagger in his chest. He winced anyways, not that anyone caught it. 

The night was chilly when Malcolm stepped down the precinct steps. His breath blew a foggy cloud of condensation before him, as he halfheartedly tugged his suit jacket against his body, tucking his already frozen hands under his armpits. 

It was late, far later than they usually stayed in the evening, but then again, technically the team had stayed around forty hours late now. 

Malcolm shook his head at the thought. 

He wasn’t quite sure any cafes would be open at this hour, since generally coffee was a morning beverage. 

Against all odds, Malcolm stumbled across an open cafe. Well, a cafe with the lights still on, at least. There was a barista behind the counter, cleaning-- but the doors were locked. It was only ten minutes after closing, and Malcolm cursed his luck on that sense. 

Still, he rapped his knuckles against the glass of the door, halfheartedly praying for a miracle all the while he managed to send the barista a light smile when the young man’s spooked eyes fell onto him. The young man frowned, watching Malcolm for a second before deeming him not a threat and walking to the door. 

They spoke briefly through the glass door, a good safety precaution on the kid’s side, before the man was unlocking the door, and letting Malcolm in. 

It was easier than Malcolm thought it would’ve been to talk the man into making another pot of coffee, despite the late hour and the fact the cafe was closed. 

Maybe it was the hefty tip Malcolm handed him that would’ve covered the coffees easily, at least multiple times. A fifty in tip added onto the bill was a small price to pay to keep his teammates at bay. 

Malcolm smiled his thanks, stepping out with three large coffees made perfectly to his teammate’s likings in a to-go carrier. The door clicked locked behind him, the young man waving through the glass before returning to cleaning up. 

**You’re treating them well, my boy, considering they told you to leave.**

“There’s a difference between telling someone to take a walk and telling someone to leave,” Malcolm mumbled under his breath in reply. He was quick to defend, but there was still a sinking feeling in his chest that his father might be right. 

**Touchy, touchy.**

Malcolm forced himself to ignore that, stepping off the curb and into the street. The city had died down, or at least this part of the city had. There were few cars, and not a soul to be seen besides himself. 

It was eerie. Too quiet. 

Until it wasn’t. 

Tires screeched on the pavement, skidding to a stop behind him. Malcolm turned to look, but before he could get that far something slammed against the back of his head. 

It all happened to fast, plotted to the smallest detail. 

The pressure on the back of his head felt like fire, and he could only manage to hold onto his consciousness for seconds-- long enough to feel the three large, _hot_ coffees soak into his shirt and suit jacket as he fell forwards, and to catch a glance of a hooded figure hauling him up by the arm before the world faded to black before him.

* * *

Gil rubbed tiredly at his eyes. It was getting harder to keep them open. The words on the case file before him were starting to blend together, and a dull headache thrummed at the base of his skull. 

He let the paper in his hands flutter down to the table where he shut the file with a sigh. 

His team looked worse for the wear, eyelids drooping and bodies slouched desperately into their chairs. He wrinkled his nose thoughtfully. 

Dani’s head was being held up by her arm, elbow settled on the table, and palm and knuckles supporting her cheek-- no doubt digging into her cheek and leaving a bright red mark. 

JT didn’t look much better, slumping in his chair as he struggled to keep his eyes open, occasionally going cross-eyed as he read over his file. 

Gil hadn’t meant to let it get this bad-- he wasn’t sure how that ‘just one more hour’ had turned into this. They were desperate to get this new killer off the streets, but he wasn’t sure he liked how worn down everyone was. 

They’d definitely over done it. 

“Okay,” Gil cleared his throat, tired eyes sweeping over his team, “that’s it. We’re done.” 

“We’re not done,” Dani frowned, looking a bit more awake now that she’d been spoke too, JT yawned from across the table, proving Gil’s point. Dani’s eyes darted to JT momentarily before flying back to Gil. 

“We’re not,” Gil mended slowly, “but we’re taking a much-needed rest for now. The two of you are no use to me if you can’t keep your eyes open.” 

“What about you?” Dani narrowed her eyes. Gil could see her rebuttal to Gil sending them home, but staying in the office sitting on the tip of her tongue. 

“I’m done too,” Gil promised, a tiny smile curling onto his lips. “We let this get too far. I know we need to get the MW Slasher off the streets, but we’re no help to anyone like this. We need sleep. And we need to eat.” 

“We’ve been eating,” JT furrowed his eyebrows, “and sleeping.” 

“Yeah,” Gil snorted, standing from his chair and stretching the kinks out of his back, “bagels Bright supplied us with don’t count. And I mean real sleep-- dinky few hours naps in your chair don’t count, JT.” 

JT opened his mouth to respond, but it shut just as fast as he reached up to rub at his eyes, “alright, fine. Maybe you’re right, Boss.” 

“Of course I am,” Gil shook his head, patting JT on the shoulder as he walked around the table to grab his coat. 

“Speaking of Bright,” Dani angled her head towards Gil, “where is he? He said he was getting coffee, but that was like an hour ago. He doesn’t seem the type to just leave?” 

Gil blinked, faintly remembering his kid telling them he was going to get coffee. His attention had been on the case, of course, but he remembered noticing Malcolm’s tremor return with a vengeance. He’d sent the kid out to take a walk, like he’d been doing the entire time he’d known the boy. 

Malcolm got over whelmed, and sometimes all he needed was a moment of silence, and some fresh air to bring him back. Coffee had been his excuse to leave the room. 

“Dude probably went home,” JT shrugged, “I would’ve too if Dani went off on me like she did to him.” 

“I didn’t go off on him,” Dani narrowed her eyes at JT, offended, “I simply mentioned we’re all adults. He was being annoying-- even more than usual.” 

“You almost bit his head off,” JT didn’t relent, eyebrow arching almost fearfully. “You’re scary when you’re tired.” 

“Like you’re much better,” Dani frowned. “At least I didn’t ignore him.” 

“You really think snapping’s better than ignoring?” JT’s face scrunched up in annoyance. Dani returned a just as annoyed glance. 

“Alright, alright,” Gil called their attention, “settle down. You’re both irritated, and I’m guessing it’s cause we’re all tired. I don’t think any of us were particularly nice to Bright today. We can apologize tomorrow after we’ve all had some sleep.” 

“Sleep sounds good,” Dani mumbled after a second of silence. 

“Yeah,” Gil agreed, “none of us are fit to be driving, so call yourself a cab. I don’t need any of my guys falling asleep behind the wheel.” 

“Sure,” Dani agreed, slipping her cellphone out. Dani lifted her phone to her ear, talking quietly to the cab company. 

“I’ll just text Tally to see if she’s up,” JT ducked his head, eyes staring down at his own phone. “Cheaper than a cab, and she can bring me in tomorrow too.” 

“Good call,” Gil gave him a tired smile, “you two try and sleep in, alright? I don’t wanna see either of you until ten AM, at least, got it?” 

“Fine,” Dani frowned, phone still held to her ear, probably on hold. “I don’t like us just putting this case on hold--” 

“And I don’t like my team falling asleep _on_ the case,” Gil cut her off. “Tomorrow, after we’ve all gotten some sleep and we’re thinking clearly, we’ll keep going. We can’t figure anything out when we can barely stay awake.” 

“Yeah, alright.” JT agreed, letting his phone settled screen down on his thigh as he slumped back in his chair. “Tally’s on her way.” 

“Cab too,” Dani set her phone on the table. She closed the victim file she’d been working on, flattening her hand on the front of it as she sighed. 

Gil sent a quick text off to Malcolm, checking in on him, before lifting his attention back to Dani. The kid didn’t write back, but it wasn’t that unusual. It wouldn’t be the first time Malcolm ignored his texts. 

“Anything from Bright?” Dani’s voice was soft, and if Gil hadn’t known any better, he’d almost think she was guilty about snapping at their profiler. 

“No,” Gil perched himself on the edge of the table, reigning in the inkling of worry that he always got when Malcolm didn’t answer, “but with any luck he’s gone home to sleep for a bit too. He’s been up just as long as all of us.” 

“I didn’t think Bright slept,” JT commented absently, frowning at Gil. 

“Not often,” Gil shrugged, “he occasionally passes out the like rest of us, though.” 

JT opened his mouth to reply, but his phone buzzing cut him off. He looked down at it before lifting his tired eyes back up, now looking a bit relieved, “that’s Tally. She’s outside.” 

“Good,” Gil repeated, “go home now. I expect to see the two of you showered, fed and fresh-faced tomorrow morning. And I don’t wanna see you before--” 

“Ten AM,” JT rolled his eyes fondly, “I got it, Boss.” 

JT stepped out of the room, giving a halfhearted salute as he stepped away. Gil turned his attention onto Dani. She was looking down at her phone, and Gil caught sight of Malcolm’s name at the top of the texting screen. 

The look on her face told him Malcolm hadn’t responded to her either. 

“Cab’s outside,” Dani cleared her throat, attention lifting to Gil. “Did you wanna share the cab? You haven’t called for one yet, and I know you’re not stupid enough to even think about driving home when you told us we couldn’t.” 

“I wasn’t,” Gil promised. He’d been planning on calling his own cab after he was sure his team was out of the building and on their way home. “I wouldn't mind sharing. The sooner I get home, the better. Thanks, Dani.” 

“Sure,” Dani gave a shrug, finally pulling herself from her chair. 

Gil followed Dani out, locking the door to the conference room so no one could look through their files. Not that anyone would-- people tended to ignore the major crimes room. 

He let out a sigh, checking his phone for any text notifications one last time before finally following Dani outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully you liked this first chapter! I don't know how long this'll end up being, but I've got a lot of it sorted out. OC is, of course, the murder/kidnapper. Major character, but not all the same. Big focus is Malcolm and the team :D
> 
> Poor Bright just trying to be best boy and not being appreciated :( 
> 
> Anyways, thanks for taking the time to read! Kudos are greatly appreciated, and if you could maybe leave a comment telling me how you liked this, or how I did with the characterization, I'd be very happy! Also, title may change, if you've got a suggestion, please drop it below! :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been doing a lot of puzzle building with this fic. I think it's the most effort I've ever put in the building up a case to be solved. Hopefully everything'll come together in the end!
> 
> Also, can I just thank everyone who left a comment, or kudos on the first chapter? I really didn't think this would get noticed? You're all amazing! I loved reading each of your comments, and hopefully you guys'll leave more!

Gil woke up feeling refreshed the following morning. 

He’d gotten over ten hours of sleep, which was good for him, considering he barely managed to get seven hours on a good night. And for the first time, in what felt like years, he’d had a second to just lay in bed and think before hauling himself up to start his day. 

It was just after eight thirty-- but it still felt weird waking up so late in the morning. He was usually at the precinct by seven AM at the latest. He liked his team to be in by at least eight-thirty, if not earlier. Crime never slept, and there was always one thing or another to be working on. 

Gil had rolled himself over when he felt awake enough for the task, grabbing his phone and squinting at his lock screen. He hadn’t gotten any new texts overnight, and Malcolm hadn’t even opened the message he’d sent him the evening before. 

Gil worried his bottom lip between his teeth, sitting up and sending another quick check in message. Maybe the kid’s phone had been on silent, and he’d passed out at home before checking it? 

Gil tried not to dwell on it, he loved Malcolm to bits, but the kid had always been awful at texting back. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d spent hours worrying about him, only for Malcolm to show up perfectly fine without even realizing he’d been worrying people. 

He’d gotten himself showered, and ate an easy breakfast of coffee and toast, since he didn’t have his car to stop in at the usual cafe and get himself a fancy breakfast pastry and coffee-- the finer taste Malcolm had gotten him hooked on way back when Gil first met the kid. 

Gil called a cab while he finished off his coffee, then went about gathering the belongings he’d need for the day. It was really just his wallet, car and house keys and a jacket. Good thing the cab didn’t take too long to arrive. 

Gil checked his phone for the second time that morning tucked away in the backseat of the taxi cab. His thumb slid over Malcolm’s name, before he was pressing the ‘call’ button and holding the device to his ear. 

It rang. 

And rang. 

And then went to voice mail. 

He didn’t bother leaving a message. With any luck he’d find the kid hunched over the case in the major crimes conference room when he arrived. Malcolm did always have a one-track mind when he was working a case. 

Gil arrived at the office twenty minutes later, just after nine AM. He checked on his LeMans in the parking lot to make sure nothing had happened to it over night (which was unlikely considering it was in the precinct parking lot). 

There was a lot more hustle in the office at this hour than there usually was when he arrived earlier in the morning. The usually vacant desks in the bullpen were filled with working officers now and chatter filled the air. 

He didn’t see Dani or JT milling around anywhere, thankfully. He was glad they’d followed orders and taken a couple hours to themselves. He also didn’t see Malcolm which… well, he wasn’t quite as proud about. 

Gil frowned to himself, making his way to his office. There was nothing to be worried about yet. Malcolm was a grown ass man, who could, against popular belief, take care of himself. He had for a whole ten years while he was at Quantico and then when he’d gotten his job with the FBI out of New York. 

Gil had only talked to him a couple times a month between their busy schedules, and he knew Malcolm had kept his mother at arm's length in that time frame. That had been the time Jessica had gone a bit overboard between her pills and alcohol. 

There’d been no one to keep an eye on him then, and he was still alive, so that had to count for something. 

Still didn’t make Gil happy that the kid was so lost in his own head he was ignoring messages though. They’d definitely be having a talk when the kid finally decided to show his face back at the precinct. 

Gil settled himself at his desk to work a bit on other cases he’d been letting pile up with his focus on the MW Slasher. He’d like to hold onto his sanity for a while longer before throwing himself back into the case that had gotten virtually nowhere in the week they’d been working on it. 

Dani arrived at ten AM on the dot, poking her head into Gil’s office to greet him before going to her own desk to work on other cases just as he was. Her eyes had briefly swept over the office, looking for their profiler, before she was shooting a confused look at Gil at Malcolm’s absence. 

Gil could only give her a shrug. 

JT arrived just before eleven, which Gil assumed was Tally’s doing. She’d followed him to talk with Dani, shooting Gil a smile when the man had given her a thankful nod for taking care of his guy. 

He’d always liked Tally-- she was good for JT. 

JT had gotten to work on some of his own unfinished files, the team, in an almost unspoken agreement, had decided to wait for Bright before carrying on with the MW Slasher case. 

The only problem was, Bright didn’t arrive. 

It was just past noon when Gil finally stepped out of his office, glancing around the room with a heavy frown in hopes of spotting his profiler. Malcolm wasn’t one to not come into work, especially when there was such an important case waiting to be solved. 

He’d seen the kid report in with a one-hundred- and three-degree fever once, but Gil had been quick to shut _that_ down and send the kid home. 

Dani was staring at a cup on her desk that housed her pens and other writing utensils-- and Gil could just barely make out the lemon-lime flavored Dum-Dum lollipop Malcolm had given her settled against the rim of the cup. 

JT was staring blankly at his computer monitor, eyes occasionally shifting to the door when it opened and closed, almost as if he were waiting for someone. For Malcolm. 

That could only mean Malcolm hadn’t responded to either of them either. 

He knew JT checked in with Malcolm from time to time-- Tally had told him she thought it was cute how JT checked in on the younger man. 

Tally had seemed to like Malcolm, when they’d met in passing and that was something Gil loved about JT’s wife. She was just the sweetest person, reminding him of his Jackie. 

Dani didn’t even try to hide the fact she and Malcolm texted. Gil couldn’t even express how happy it made him to know the kid finally had some friends that weren’t him, or Ainsley. 

It was sad to think that the only people who stuck around in Malcolm’s life had been himself, a cop twenty years his senior, and his little sister. And Jessica, of course, but there was only so much dignity he could keep when tell people he was friends with his mother. 

Gil tried to mask the worry clawing through his stomach, talking himself out of contacting Jessica and Ainsley to question them about Malcolm’s whereabouts. Last thing he needed was to worry them and then have Malcolm show up. 

Gil paused between Dani and JT’s desks, both of them blinking out of their hazed stares and up to him. 

“Any word from Bright?” Dani asked carefully, almost sullenly. “He’s been ignoring me. I think he’s mad at me. Was I too hard on him yesterday?” 

“He’s been ignoring me too, don’t worry. And Malcolm doesn’t do mad,” Gil shook his head, “not normal mad, anyways. Besides, if anything, yesterday would’ve spooked him, not made him angry.” 

“Spooked him?” JT asked slowly, “what’s that mean?” 

“Nothing,” Gil dismissed casually with a flap of his hand, “he’s probably fine. I’ll just give him another call. Scold his sorry ass for ignoring us.” 

Gil slipped his phone from his pocket, unlocking it easily and scrolling through his contacts. He clicked Malcolm’s profile, followed by tapping his thumb on the ‘call’ button for the second time that morning. 

Like before, it rang. 

Only… 

It was ringing in the office, not just on Gil’s phone. Malcolm’s phone was here. 

Gil spun around on his heels, following in the direction the ringing was coming from. He heard Dani and JT’s office chairs roll as they stood to follow him, but didn’t give it more than a second’s thought. 

The ringing of the phone led them to evidence. 

Where Malcolm’s phone was sitting in an evidence bag on the table. Gil gaped, unsure what to say-- unsure what kind of sick joke was being played on them as he stepped to grab the bag. 

He held the device through the plastic, inspecting the phone before looking back at his team with an unsure expression. His name was lit up on the screen, and Gil’s heart hammered anxiously in his chest. 

Dani and JT had matching looks of worry clouded disbelief. 

Gil ended the call on his own phone, and Malcolm’s phone blinked briefly with a ‘two missed calls’ and ‘five new texts’ notifications before fading to black. 

“Lieutenant Arroyo,” the officer working with the evidence blinked as he stepped in the room. He looked towards the phone in Gil’s hand, then around at team staring at. “What can I do for you?” 

“What,” Gil forced out, hoping to keep his voice somewhat neutral, “is this?” 

“Evidence?” the man furrowed his eyebrows. He looked confused, like he couldn’t figure out how the Lieutenant couldn’t make the connection that the phone in the evidence bag, in the evidence room, was evidence. 

“We got that part,” JT narrowed his eyes in annoyance, “why’s it evidence?” 

"There was a abduction last night, just outside a cafe,” the officer explained, “it was reported just before midnight by a young man working in the cafe. We've got Officer Walker looking into the disappearance, but we've all had our hands full with a child going missing in the middle of the night. Mother thinks she was taken by her abusive father, so the precinct has been focusing on finding her.” 

“What?” Gil wheezed, suddenly feeling like he’d taken a punch to the gut. 

“Why haven’t you guys been splitting your attention?” Dani snapped, “someone has been abducted and you guys don’t even care? Where’s the witness to the cafe abduction?” 

Dani looked as flustered as Gil felt. For a moment, he could only see red, when the officer spoke about all their efforts being spent on rescuing the kid, which, yeah, he got. But what about the other victim? What about Bright? 

“In the conference room,” the officer frowned, “he’s-” 

They didn’t stick around long enough to hear what the officer had to say, Gil led the way to the only conference room with the door shut, Bright’s cellphone clenched in his fist. If no one else was going to make Bright’s case priority, Gil sure as hell would. 

The room was bright, but still the man had curled himself up in one of the office chairs, sleeping soundly. Gil wondered briefly how long the man had been here-- long enough to have fallen asleep while waiting, but he couldn’t focus on it. 

There were more pressing matters to be attending too. 

The door closing behind JT roused the man from his sleep, he looked up warily at the team before frowning. “You’re not the officer I spoke too last night.” 

“No,” Gil blinked, taking the man in, “we’re working this case now. We’ve been told you were the witness to the abduction last night?” 

“Have you really been here all night?” JT frowned. 

The guy eyed them for a second longer before giving them a curt nod. He uncurled himself from his chair, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Yeah, I... I saw it happen. I was waiting for someone to take my statement about… about last night, but I must’ve fallen asleep.” 

“Sorry you’ve been waiting so long,” Dani stepped forward, sitting in a chair across from the young man. “We can take your statement now, and then you’ll be free to go.” 

There wasn’t a lot the young man could tell them. He’d confirmed it was Bright who’d been taken, even without knowing he’d confirmed it was Malcolm. As if the phone itself wasn’t enough proof. Their witness reported a young man with blue eyes and brown hair dressed in a fancy suit coming into the cafe around ten PM. 

He’d mentioned the fifty dollar tip his after-hours customer had given him, which had JT rolling his eyes fondly, and for a second, he didn’t look sick with worry. 

Just for a second though. 

The young man had watched from the cafe as Bright was knocked over the back of the head with an unidentified weapon, by a hooded figure before he was hauled into a black van with tinted windows. 

They’d been speeding away before the kid could manage to get the door unlocked to assist, and Gil could see the guilt clouding the man’s eyes. “I didn’t see a face, and the van didn’t have any plates-- I just… I found his phone outside where he’d been struck and collapsed and… and I called 911. It took a while for the police to arrive… just after midnight maybe?” 

“You did all you could,” Gil promised, even if it felt like a whole lot of nothing. There wasn’t much a civilian could do without putting themself into danger as well. It didn’t seem to ease the guilt in his eyes, but he’d given a small nod anyways. “We’ll find him. Thank you for your help.” 

The man gave another, smaller nod. 

The young barista left shortly thereafter, frown tugging on his lips. Dani had shown him out, giving him the usual spiel that they’d contact him if they needed anything from him, or had and further questions for him. 

They couldn’t panic. Panicking would get them nowhere. Bright needed them. Bright was in danger, and that’s something Gil had never been able to ignore. They’d get to the bottom of this.

* * *

Malcolm woke to a pounding in his head. He was on the floor, he noted tiredly, body contorted painfully. His body was stiff; raw and sore beyond belief. His clothes ruffled and stained, probably ruined-- the smell of JT’s frankly too sweet coffee clinging to his clothes. 

The burn marks from the coffee below his clothes stung painfully as he jostled his body in an attempt to sit up, only to realize that his hands were tied behind his back. The roped restraining him rubbed painfully against his already raw wrists, so he quickly gave up on trying to right himself. 

His body relaxed against the floor as much as someone in this particular situation could, head thumping tiredly against the concrete flooring of what Malcolm assumed was a basement. 

The coffee soaked into his clothes did little to take away from the scent of blood, burnt skin and stale death filling the room. Malcolm wrinkled his nose at the thought. From his angle, he could see a poorly wiped up pool of blood discolouring the floor; surrounding one singular chair. 

Malcolm assumed that was the main culprit behind the metallic assault on his nose. Malcolm swallowed down the bile threatening to rise at the stale scent of blood, taking a breath to calm himself before continuing his work. 

There was a small table off to the side of the chair, a singular knife with murky-brown blood dried along the sharp edge tossed carelessly on the tabletop. Malcolm gave an involuntary swallow, continuing his assessment of the room he was in. 

There was an old coal furnace tucked away in the corner of the basement. One that had been deemed unsafe in New York years prior. Beside it a bag of coal, and… and… 

Malcolm swallowed a second time. 

An iron branding stamp with a sloppy ‘MW’ for the stamp. One that lined up perfectly with the branding their victims had burned into the inner part of their wrists. 

He hadn’t just been kidnapped… he’d been kidnapped by the killer he’d been profiling. The one who’d been playing around with the Major Crimes Department. The killer who’d dropped a new body almost daily. 

Malcolm forced himself to take another breath. 

He tried to remember how he’d gotten himself into this situation. 

His mind delayed a second-- the concussion he was sure he had lagging his brain-- before he started to piece together what had happened. Dani had snapped at him and… Gil had told him to take a walk. He’d been going to get coffee for the team. 

Someone had… he’d been hit. In the back of the head, which explained the thrumming pain. 

Malcolm let out a groan, using all his energy to turn himself over. He was in the middle of the floor, he was pretty sure, so there was a whole other side of the room. 

He tried not to let his surprise show as his eyes connected with a pair of dirty combat boots, no further than an inch or two from his face. He turned his head at an angle that strained his neck, eyes trailing up the body of this person, before catching those of a man. 

The man sat in a chair was just watching him, staring down intently at him. He was hunched over, elbow on his knee and his palm supporting his head. 

His chin was angled down, and Malcolm could make out all the details of the man’s face. There wasn’t much of a point in hiding his face anyways-- not when Malcolm was nothing more than sitting pray. 

The man had light skin; maybe just a bit darker than Malcolm's own. He was caucasian, definitely, but he was tanned. His hair was black, and his eyes a deep green. He had a familiar face; Malcolm couldn’t help but notice. 

He was young, around Malcolm’s own age if he could guess. He didn’t particularly look like a killer, nor a kidnapper. He looked like an average man who’d be in line behind you in a high-end cafe or something. Ordinary. 

Malcolm hadn’t expected the kidnapper to be watching him so intently-- green eyes wide and focused; almost owl like. 

It made him uncomfortable, and he could only frown at the thought of this man doing the same to the young women he’d taken and killed. 

“Well, that was fast,” the MW Slasher flashed a smile, standing up from his chair and moving towards Malcolm. “I’ll admit, I didn’t think you’d come to quite so fast, or I would’ve had you tied to the chair already. No matter, now that you’re conscious, it’s time for the real fun to begin.” 

Malcolm’s throat was dry. “And by real fun, you mean you’re gonna kill me?” 

The MW Slasher was stronger than he looked, grabbing a hold of Malcolm’s suit jacket sleeve and dragging him across the floor. Malcolm was filled with a sick sense of deja vu at being manhandled around, he didn’t remember it well, but he had a hazy recognition of it. 

“No,” the man shook his head, “not yet. Where’s the fun in that? There’s still so much to do before we get to that.” 

The killer hoisted him into the chair surrounded by the ring of dried-up blood, kneeling down to tie each of his ankles to the legs of the chair. Malcolm refrained from wincing as the killer tugged the rope taut against his ankles, incredibly close to cutting off his circulation. 

He set his hand on Malcolm’s knee as he pushed himself up. 

He moved to untie Malcolm’s hands from behind his back, pausing briefly and eyeing the profiler warily, “you make any move to get away, or to take me down, you’ll be killed. Got it? Trust me on this, it’s in your best interest to let your hands be tied to the armrests. You’ll be here a while.” 

Another brief pause, “or, I can knock you out again if you don’t think you can keep your hands to yourself?” 

**I’d take the former of those options if I were you, my boy-- another knock to the head and you might not wake up at all. Brain trauma is fickle like that, and you’ve already got a pretty nasty concussion.**

Because of course this kidnapping could only get worse. Of course it could. And so much worse it did get. Why not add a second serial killer to the one already holding him hostage? 

**Ouch, remember I’m your father too.**

How could he ever forget that draining fact? 

“I’ll behave,” Malcolm breathed out. 

It would be easy enough to knock this man over-- to escape. But Malcolm didn’t know what was upstairs. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know if there would be help anywhere around. He knew nothing. Plus, with his ankles already tied to the chair, he’d stumble easily. 

It would be a stupid risk to take. There were too many unknown variables. 

“Perfect,” the killer gave a nod, moving to undo the knots digging in to Malcolm’s wrists, “besides, it’s not like you’ll make it very far should you try, the door is locked with a keypad. Three wrong pass-codes and this place goes boom.” 

**Oh, would you look at that, he’s thought ahead.**

Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut as his hands were untied. 

He chanced a move at rubbing the torn skin on his wrists before the killer forcefully grabbed his right hand, tying it to the armrest with just as little taut as his ankles, before doing the same with the left. 

“Just as docile as I remember,” the killer smiled, finally stepping back and leaving Malcolm. “All the girlies who met the same fate you’re gonna get eventually were just as docile too. Do I make you just as nervous as I did them?” 

Malcolm’s eyebrows furrowed with the words. _As I remember_. What did that mean? Did Malcolm know this man? Did he know Malcolm? Was it a slip of tongue? 

“As I remember?” Malcolm echoed, frown tugging on his lips, “have we met before?” 

Malcolm’s question was met with silence. 

The killer’s body stiffened for just a second before he returned to his relaxed form. It was just a second, but Malcolm had built his career off catching the ‘for just a second’ things. The hidden and masked movements of killers they didn’t want others to pick up on. 

Malcolm watched as the man made his way across the room, past the chair he’d been sitting in when Malcolm had come too. 

Malcolm had failed to notice the camera just past the chair. It was bulky, like the ones Ainsley used for her new reports, supported safely on a tripod. The killer picked the camera up, padding back over to Malcolm; boots clunking against the concrete flooring as he did so. 

The camera was set up in front of Malcolm, pushed back enough that he was sure his whole body would be in frame. He didn’t understand the camera. 

Malcolm was instantly on edge. 

“Did you film all your victims?” Malcolm asked easily, hoping he didn’t sound as afraid as he felt. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was still profiling. Why he was trying to solve this case when he couldn’t see himself getting out of this alive. 

This man had killed several women before him-- and suddenly his profile no longer fit. Malcolm wasn’t a young woman with blonde hair and blue eyes. 

“Nah,” the killer shook his head, still working with the camera, setting it up and looking in the view finder, before pulling back it back a bit more. “It’s special for you.” 

“Oh yeah?” Malcolm tilted his head, “and why’s that? Why’m I so special?” 

Once again, the killer didn’t answer. 

He worked with the camera for another couple minutes before finally stepping away from it. He gave it a quick once over, before looking back at Malcolm with a sadistic smile. “I hope they like the show.” 

“Who?” Malcolm questioned desperately; he knew he sounded close to pleading. 

“Your friends at the NYPD.” 

“My…” Malcolm furrowed his eyebrows. 

**Friends?** The voice in the back of Malcolm’s head snorted, his father’s voice a cruel disbelief. He brushed away his father’s words, steeling his voice as he continued, desperate for any answer he could get, “you’re going to send them videos of me?” 

“No,” the killer blinked, patting the base of the camera softly, pridefully, “I’m going to send them a live stream of you. Let them watch, knowing there’s nothing they can do to save you.” 

“Why?” Malcolm demanded, “why are you doing this?” 

“I’m going to do to you, what I did to all those pretty girls I had down here with me.” The killer announced, barely giving Malcolm a second thought. Not acknowledging his words in the slightest, “They were just the bait, those poor girls. Not you though. I’ll give you your rightful branding with all your little police friends watching. And then, I’ll kill you, like you deserve.” 

“My branding?” Malcolm froze, “what do you mean? Why is it mine? The MW, what does it mean? _Why is it mine?_ ” 

“It’s always been yours. It’s always been for you. MW. All for you.” 

“My name is Malcolm Bright, so what does the MW mean?” 

“It’s all been for you,” the killer insisted, “I knew it would lead you to me. I knew you’d come; you never could turn away a puzzle, even when we were little. It was the MW that caught your attention, right? The MW was calling out to you; familiar, _yours_ , isn’t that right, _Malcolm Whitly_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't mind me freaking myself out as I wrote the killer watching Malcolm unconscious. Malcolm's kidnapper had bad vibes.
> 
> Anywho! Another chapter is in the works, and it'll probably have more answers about who this killer is. What are you guys thinking so far? Are you liking it? Am I doing a casefic justice? Comments are greatly appreciated! And kudos are also great to see :D
> 
> Thanks for the support, hopefully the next chapter will be up soon!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! A quick post before I leave the house this morning!
> 
> I've written ahead past this chapter and whoa boy, things are gonna get whumpy! 
> 
> Anywho, I'm late now, so please enjoy this update!

“I think you have me mistaken for someone else,” Malcolm breathed out, shoving down the sheer panic churning his stomach, “I told you, my name is Malcolm Bright.” 

“I don’t. Maybe that stupid alias of yours has fooled people before--” the killer stepped forwards, shoving his face into Malcolm’s so they were almost nose to nose, “you can change your name, Whitly, but you can’t change who you are. _What_ you are.” 

“So, you do know me,” Malcolm swallowed. “How do you know me? Why are you doing this? What did I do to you?” 

The killer’s lip curled into a snarl before he was pushing himself off of Malcolm. “Smile for the camera when the little red light comes on, alright, Whitly? That’s how you’ll know you’ve gone live, and all your little cop buddies are watching. You don’t wanna disappoint, do you?” 

The killer stepped away, and Malcolm listened to his boots trekking up the stairs before he heard the telltale sound of a keypad beeping as a number combination was typed in. So that hadn’t been a lie to make Malcolm feel threatened, there really was a keypad-- he wondered about the bomb thought. 

The door shut shortly after, a click of the locking mechanism announcing that Malcolm was now alone in the basement. Alone with his thoughts, and the camera that was yet to start blinking red at him. 

**Alone?** Malcolm’s father snorted in the back of his mind, **so you’re just going to pretend I’m not here then? Only you would rather be alone in a situation like this, my boy.**

Well, almost alone. 

“I am alone,” Malcolm snarled under his breath, “you’re just my subconscious taking the form of my most _infuriating_ nightmare. It’s probably the concussion-- a cruel reaction to the stress of literally being held captive. I don’t need you, Doctor Whitly.” 

**Well, that’s rather harsh, Malcolm.**

Malcolm chose to ignore his father’s voice again, frowning to himself as he tested the strength of his restraints. The rope was still digging uncomfortably into his wrists and ankles, and there was no give whatsoever. 

He didn’t try to keep moving for long, as the ropes cut into his skin with every movement and he could almost feel his hands and feet losing blood flow. It wasn’t completely cut off, but his limbs still weren’t getting the blood flow they desperately needed. 

He needed to keep his movements to a minimum. 

He could already feel a cool, numb feeling overwhelming his body below the taut ropes. He didn’t know how long he’d been down in this basement, how long it had been since he’d been dismissed from the MW Slasher case. 

He wondered briefly how the killer planned on delivering a live stream to the NYPD. Would he hack in and take control of their screens? Upload this supposed stream onto some dark web platform and anonymously send a link? 

It was pretty ballsy, and Malcolm wanted to know what the motives behind this are. 

Why would a killer be sending the police a live stream of his hostage? What would possess a person to do that? He was making direct contact with the people trying to find and arrest him, and for what reason? 

The killer had been pretty flamboyant about his murders, almost seeking attention from the NYPD and new reporters-- the MW branding he’d stamped onto his victim’s wrists was certainly an attention grabber, but this was a step further. 

He was putting himself out there-- opening himself up. He wanted someone to see this live stream. He was bleak about it, but there was definitely one person in particular this killer wanted to see Malcolm suffer. 

The question was: who, and why? 

Malcolm dropped his head, chin settling against his chest. He stared hard down at the coffee stain on his white button up shirt, before he was shutting his eyes and forcing his body to relax. The ropes weren’t quite as tight when we wasn’t tensing his muscles. 

His team was looking for him, right? 

Surely, they would’ve noticed he was gone? How long had he been gone? It was just past ten PM when he’d left the little cafe with the coffees for the team. What day was it? 

Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut at the idea of his team being greatly surprised if the MW Slasher stayed true to his word and sent them a live stream. What a cruel way to announce someone’s been kidnapped, if his team didn’t already know he had been. 

They knew, right? 

_They’re looking for you_ , Malcolm told himself, not completely sure if he was actually speaking the words aloud, or if it was just the positive non-serial killer side of his brain, _you are a part of their team and… they’d try to find a teammate._

**Are you sure about that, my boy?**

“Sure about what?” Malcolm decided to humor the little voice in the back of his head. It was too quiet in the room. A weird twinge of desperation sunk in Malcolm’s chest at the fact that he was already desperate enough to humor his father’s voice in the back of his head. 

**That they’re looking for you. They didn’t seem too concerned when you left, barely even noticed the emotional distress you were in. Gil had just waved you off with a flick of his hand.** A moment’s pause. **And that lady cop, she’d been very cross with you, my boy. Are you sure she’s looking?**

“She was stressed,” Malcolm defended, pushing away the drop of fear in the pit of his stomach that believed every word his father was telling him. That maybe they weren’t looking at all. “And Gil will always save me from the monsters. He saved me from you, didn’t he?” 

**He hasn’t saved you from yourself, has he?**

“I’m not--” Malcolm cut himself off, lifting his attention to where the camera had suddenly started glowing a faint, blinking red. The light blinking in two second intervals, on for two and off for two. 

It was on. 

He was live. 

A wave of embarrassment rolled over Malcolm as he ducked his chin back down, hair falling into his eyes to cover any identifying parts of his face. It was futile, but it gave him a sense of security. 

He’d always been the unstable one. The one who needed someone to check in on him, the one who’d seen countless therapists and spent a large percentage of his life on one medication or another. 

He didn’t want his team to see him like this. To see the weakness. To see that he wasn’t okay. It was hard to feign ‘fine’ when you were tied to a chair. 

It was a weird thing to be embarrassed about, especially with his team, who he didn’t know if he was hoping were actually watching, or not? Neither seemed particularly better than the other. 

**Well, aren’t you going to smile for our dearest Gil?**

Malcolm’s nose scrunched up in a snarl at his father’s word, shoving the man’s voice as far back in his subconscious as he could manage. It worked on quieting him for now, but Malcolm wasn’t sure how long it would keep his deranged subconscious father at bay. 

Malcolm let his eyes fall shut once again, waiting for the MW Slasher to return. 

To finish the job.

* * *

“Lieutenant Arroyo!” Gil’s attention shot up from what little evidence they had on the person who’d taken Bright. 

He had JT going through traffic cams of the area, hoping to find the van that had taken their profiler, while Dani was sat beside him, attention focused too intently on the same evidence Gil was working with to even notice the officer in the doorway. 

As of now, going off of what the cafe employee had told them, Malcolm had been missing for nineteen hours. They’d spent the last six hours working with what little they had, desperate to find anything of importance. Desperate to find Bright. 

“What?” Gil snarled. He was still beyond angry that an abduction had been left so long just because something better had come along. He’d be just as angry if it wasn’t Malcolm they were looking for-- frankly, he was disappointed in the officers he worked with. 

“You…” the man heaved a breath, like he’d just run into the room, “you’re going to want to see this.” 

Gil looked towards Dani, seeing her attention finally lifting at the uncertainty in the officer’s voice. She moved to stand, pausing to give Gil a questioning look, to which he nodded. 

They followed behind the officer. 

There was a crowd of officers and detectives gathered around a singular monitor in the bullpen. Hushed whispers ripped over the crowd as Gil pushed his way to the front of the mob, Dani on his heels. 

Gil’s attention settled on the monitor, like all the other officers leering at the screen. Instantly, any thoughts and questions he’d previously had died on his lips. He was staggering back before he even knew what happened; bumping into Dani whose hands flattened against his back to keep him steady. 

When he stopped moving, frozen in place, Dani joined him at his side, gasping silently at the screen. 

Malcolm was on the screen. 

Body slouched and folded in on itself. He was tied to the chair he was sitting in, rope restraining his ankles to the legs of the chair, and his wrists to the armrests. 

Gil couldn’t see the face well, dark hair covering his ducked face. Gil doubted the officers crowding the screen even knew who it was holding their attention, but he knew it was his kid. 

From the slender frame, to telltale hand tremor-- and, probably most telling, the Armani suit Malcolm had been wearing the night of his disappearance, now stained and torn, almost beyond recognition. 

“Clear out,” Gil growled to everyone in the vicinity. 

None of the officers crowding the screen were of rank equal too, or above Lieutenant, so he was technically the boss of them. Some frowned, and others looked like they wanted to defy him, but no one dared-- not with the look Gil glared at anyone brave enough to look in his direction after the order. 

There was no way he’d be letting these assholes who hadn’t given him the time of day when he’d gone missing the privilege to be involved now. He didn’t want them to even look at Bright in his time of vulnerability. 

“That’s--” Dani swallowed heavily beside him. Her voice was a mix of surprise, and shock, and pain and sheer _sickness_ of seeing their boy like that. Gil gave a shallow nod as he forced himself to breathe. 

She didn’t need to finish it; they both knew who it was. The same profiler who’d stepped out to get them coffee just twenty hours earlier. 

There was only one detective to remain by the screen after Gil scared the others away, shifting anxiously as if Gil were about to lose his mind on him. It took Gil longer than it probably should’ve to determine that this was the man’s desk. That he’d found the video of Malcolm. 

“How did you get this?” He demanded, fingers dropping onto the man’s desk so he could lean forwards with the support of the desk, studying his kid on the screen. Malcolm was barely moving, but he moved just enough for Gil to let out an inaudible sigh of relief that the kid was alive. 

“The link was attached to an email,” the detective told him, “I… thought it was a joke. Chain mail or something. It wasn’t caught by our spam programs. I sent Kendrick for you the moment I realized what it was. Your name’s the title of the stream, Lieutenant…” 

Gil’s eyes shot to the top of the screen where his name was indeed posted as the title. He swallowed again, squeezing his eyes shut before forcing them open. “And this is live?” 

“As far as we know,” the detective agreed sullenly. Maybe he could feel the tension rolling off Gil in waves. 

“I want someone from IT on tracking the location of this broadcast, and the email address that sent the link back to the source. Forward me that email, and then delete it once I have it, understand?” 

“Of course, Lieutenant,” the man bowed his head. He moved to sit in his chair, following orders with Gil still standing over his shoulder. 

Gil eyed him a second longer, before continuing on, voice projecting to the rest of the bullpen, “If I see anyone from this peanut gallery watching that live stream, and you’re not working the case, you won’t like your consequences, am I understood?” 

The murmur from said peanut gallery was enough for Gil to determine they’d gotten the message (and threat) loud and clear. He shot one final irritated glance around the bullpen before he was marching back to the Major Crimes office where they’d had Malcolm’s abductions laid out. 

Or, what little they had to work with. 

Dani followed behind, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. He’d never seen such a look on her face, and it broke his heart-- almost as much as the image of Malcolm hunched over and tied to a chair-- at the mercy of some unknown party. 

JT was in the room when they got back, sat with a precinct issued laptop in front of him. 

“I found the footage of the van nabbing Bright, not much to be--” JT looked up from the laptop, frowning hard when he caught both Gil and Dani’s matching grim expressions, “did I… miss something?”

* * *

Malcolm wasn’t sure how long he was down in the basement-- trapped with his own thoughts. Alone. 

There weren’t any windows, and the concrete of the walls and floors definitely didn’t let any light in. There was one singular light above Malcolm that flickered dully. It illuminated him just enough for the camera. 

It had been hours. 

Over five hours of solitude at least. It was probably more; his internal clock couldn’t be trusted. 

Five hours of nothing, and Malcolm was starting to crack. 

His right hand shook against the restraints, pulling the rope painfully tight. He wouldn’t be surprised if the restraints had gone past bruising and were finally breaking skin. 

His hands were cold-- that cold numbness that had alarm bells ringing in his head. He tried not to look down-- afraid to see unnatural paleness, or worse, a blue/purple tint to his skin. Something that would make the possibility of losing circulation completely all the more real. 

He’d flex his fingers, or toes from time to time to make sure they still moved, to force circulations-- even if just the tiniest amount-- but they were getting stiffer. 

The basement was freezing without the old coal furnace burning, and the concrete was also doing very little to preserve the small amount of secondhand body heat the killer had left behind when he’d retreated upstairs. 

Malcolm had never done well in the cold. He always had cold hands anyways, so he prided himself now with the fact he wasn’t shivering yet. Just his regular hand tremor, which, for the first time in his life, he wasn’t worried about. 

He drifted in and out of consciousness, trying his hardest to stay awake. Time meant nothing to him. All he could think about was the silence, and how alone he felt. The concussion he knew he had was finally starting to make itself known. 

**Don’t fall asleep now, Malcolm. It won’t do that concussion of yours any good** , his father had tutted when Malcolm’s eyes slipped closed for the third time. He’d fought to follow instructions, since his subconscious usually knew best… even if it was usually a dick. 

He tried to focus on any stimuli the half-lit basement had to offer, and that was just the camera’s blinking red light. He counted out repetitive one-twos for the seconds the light was on before it blinked off, repeating every two seconds. 

He stared, attention straying before he’d force his eyes back onto the light. His father was a doctor, so Malcolm knew he needed to keep himself awake. And focused. Light probably wasn’t the best way to go about that, but in captivity, beggars couldn’t be choosers. He had to work with what he had. 

He wondered briefly if the team was watching. 

Had the MW Slasher been serious about sending a live stream to the NYPD? 

Was it a threat? 

Some sick tactic to give Malcolm a sense of false hope that the Major Crimes Department would find him before he was met with the same fate those poor girls the killer had used as bait did? 

**If they’re even looking, that is.**

Malcolm swallowed, his throat was dry from both the chill in the room and lack of use. He let his eyes settle on the camera’s lens for the first time, silently hoping there was someone on the other side watching him-- trying to help him. 

What if they weren’t? At what point should he lose hope? 

Malcolm let his eyes fall back down towards his lap. 

The door clicked somewhere behind him, and then the creaks of the stairs under the MW Slasher’s combat boots filled the room. Malcolm refused to look back at the man. 

“Are you having fun, Whitly?” 

“If I say yes, will you let me go?” Malcolm croaked out, finally angling his head towards the killer. The man narrowed his eyes in irritation and, fine, it’s probably not very intelligent on his part to be getting smart with the man holding him captive, but sarcasm was definitely his coping mechanism. 

He was losing it. 

Whether from the stress, or the concussion, Malcolm could almost feel his sanity leaving him. Broken down by the isolation, by his brain’s overactive depictions of what was to come. The nagging voice in his head telling him no one cared-- that no one was even _looking_ for him. 

“You never did know how to hold your tongue.” 

Malcolm drew in a breath, “you keep talking like you know me, which, I mean you must’ve known me at some point-- you do know my name. My real name. Not many people do.” 

“We go way back,” the killer shook his head, and Malcolm watched him walk towards the coal furnace, lighting it up and tossing some coal into it. Malcolm’s eyes fell shut at the burst of warmth after however long he’d been alone in the basement. 

“Way back, huh?” Malcolm let the side of his chin rest on his shoulder as he watched the killer. The killer didn’t so much as look back from the furnace he was working with. The flames blazed and the heat was suddenly overwhelming. 

But it was a step up from freezing cold. 

“You’re, what, thirty? Thirty-one? Around my age, at least. So, we could’ve known each other when we were younger-- school friends, maybe?” 

The killer stiffened once again, pushing a piece of coal around in the furnace without turning to look at Malcolm. A light smile curled onto Malcolm’s lips. The mouth could lie, but the body’s automatic responses definitely couldn’t. 

“I’m right,” the profile enthused blandly. The killer still didn’t spare a glance at Malcolm, but Malcolm was getting too close to uncovering something to stop now. He couldn’t let himself die at the hands of this man without finishing his profile-- without finishing the case, if only just for his own peace of mind. 

“Now, I don’t remember you from high school, nor middle school. I thought your face was familiar when I first saw it, but it was hazy recognition--” Malcolm’s hand tensed against the restraints as if to wave away the side note, as he usually would when he strayed from his train of thought, “I remember everyone I went to school with past the age of ten, so that would mean… It would’ve had to have been when we were little. Elementary years?” 

“You’re getting on my nerves, Whitly.” 

“I do that a lot,” Malcolm brushed it off, working his confident air back up. An act to hide how afraid he truly was. “I don’t remember a lot before the age of ten, it’s all blurred together, you know?” 

The killer’s shoulders tensed, and Malcolm could just see his hands curling around the handle of the fire poker he had. His knuckles filled in tensed-white skin from his grip, before he forced his grip to relax. 

He was getting somewhere. 

“I don’t understand why you won’t tell me what I did to you,” Malcolm dropped his attention back to his lap. “Surely nothing I did in our elementary years could warrant this? Maybe I can fix whatever I did.” 

“You can’t fix it,” the killer growled. He’d grabbed the knife Malcolm had spotted on his first observation of his surrounding, studying the blade before moving towards Malcolm, “no one can fix it. You Whitlys are the scum of the earth-- frankly, I’m doing the world a favor by getting rid of you.” 

Malcolm thought, for just a second, that that would be the end, that he’d snapped this man’s already brittle sanity and the knife would slide across his throat like the women before him-- but instead the killer grabbed his right suit jacket sleeve, as well as the button-up below, and slid the knife up the seam, splitting the expensive material as he went. 

Malcolm froze completely at the cool graze of the back of the knife dragging up his skin as it cut through the fabrics with little effort, not even allowing himself to breathe with the weapon so close. 

The captive let out a shallow breath when the killer finally stepped away with the knife after tearing the rest of the suit and shirt up to Malcolm’s shoulder apart, exposing his skin. 

He gave his pale arm a quick glance, allowing his heart rate to return to normal after the quick drop from the adrenaline he’d just been overcome by with the knife being so close to him. 

It only took a second to even himself back to his calculating profiler air. 

“You Whitly’s,” Malcolm forced out, concussed mind struggling to stay on topic, “that makes me think it wasn’t my doing at all--” Malcolm froze, drawing in a breath as he stared at the killer’s back as the man returned to the furnace. If a Whitly had ever caused anyone harm it was-- “that… makes me think I knew you before… before my father--” 

“What?” the killer whirred around, snarling as he pushed up into Malcolm’s space. His hand grasped Malcolm’s freshly stripped forearm, nails digging into the flesh of his arm, “before your father killed my mom, Whitly?” 

Oh. _Oh._

“Your dad killed my mom, and I got sent away for it. Isn’t that somethin’?” 

The killer gave a dark laugh, and for the second time in such a short span, Malcolm thought the man had snapped (well, even more than a serial kidnapper/murder could, at least), “is that what you wanted to hear, Whitly? That my mom was murdered by the Surgeon, and if it wasn’t already shit enough that I lost my mom when I was seven years old, I was sent away from everything I knew?” 

The MW Slasher pulled away wiping his bloodied nails against his jeans as he returned to the furnace. That definitely explained some things. Not a lot, but some things. 

Malcolm watched as the killer moved to pick with the branding stamp that had been resting against the wall beside the furnace, looking it over before setting it in the furnace to heat up. 

“I was sent to a farm, you know?” The killer spoke, back turned to Malcolm. His voice was low; calm. “I was this rich kid, from your circle sent to some lowly farm where I was nothing but free labor. I learned a lot, Whitly. How to _brand_ a horse. How to _tie_ a hog. How to _slaughter_ an animal. And when I didn’t do it right, I got beat.” 

Malcolm swallowed. 

His heart ached-- whether for this broken man before him, or maybe an ache at the thought of the unknown to come. What Malcolm’s fate held at this point. This wasn’t just some regular kidnapper-- no, the killer had a grudge on Malcolm-- on his family. 

This was revenge. 

“All because we had the misfortune of meeting you people. You _Whitly’s_ ,” he spat the name with malice. “My mom died at the hands of your father-- he took her away from me. He’s a monster.” 

The killer stared into the flame before he gave Malcolm a glare, “and you’re a monster too. You were raised by him. There’s nothing else you can be, besides a monster.” 

“I--” 

“I told you,” the killer cut Malcolm off, “you can try and hide from it, but you can’t. You can change your name, and your look. But it can’t change who you are. You’re nothing but a monster like your father.” 

**Like father, like son, my boy.**

Malcolm watched with wide eyes as the killer moved back to the furnace, turning the branding stamp and pulling it out so Malcolm could see the bright orange glow of the heated iron stamp. 

The threat of it. 

Malcolm gave an involuntarily swallow as he attempted to turn his wrists down against the cool metal of the chair, fighting against the restraints. Anything to cover the spot where each of the girls they’d found had had the familiar branding. 

The killer ignored him, shoving the metal back into the furnace, not yet heated enough for the son of the Surgeon. He wanted it to _burn._

“You’re your father’s son, Malcolm Whitly, and I’m going to make sure you _never_ forget who you are again. And then I’m gonna kill you-- rid the world of another monster.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought? I love seeing your guys comments and opinions! It's the best part of writing on this site, ya'll are so nice! Comments and kudos are both greatly appreciated!
> 
> Next chapter will be up soon (hopefully), I like staying ahead with my chapters so I don't have to panic when I need to update again!
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Welcome to another new chapter! I'm pretty sure this'll only be about seven chapters by the end, but I may possible do eight. Seven is where it stands right now though, we shall see. 
> 
> There's a _trigger warning_ in this chapter for actual torture, but it's just towards the end. It's a bit graphic, so warnings for that. This is a whumpy one, my friends. Poor Malcolm, he deserves so much better (I say as I torture him too). 
> 
> Anyways! Enjoy this chapter!

The room felt a lot colder as the information sunk in. Suddenly Malcolm was immune to the heat from the furnace consuming the room. The threat of death suddenly sounded good. Warranted. 

Malcolm was overcome with those dark whispers in the back of his mind that he’d been taught to suffocate by his therapists. The ones he was told to bury, and ignore. They burst past the floodgate he’d assembled in his late childhood years and suddenly he was drowning in the dark voice. 

The words reminded him who he was. 

It always tied back to his childhood. 

To his father. 

Malcolm’s father had killed this man’s mother. 

Martin Whitly was the MW Slasher’s origin story. 

His father had made this man into the killer he was without even knowing he had. Another case of the families of the victims taking the brunt of the surgeon’s murderous deeds. It never was just the victim themself who’s live was ruined-- ended. It was those close to them as well. 

“I’m sorry,” Malcolm breathed out. An apology was the least he could do-- all he could muster. It rolled off his tongue before he could stop himself. It wouldn’t mean anything to this killer, it wouldn’t bring back the man’s mother. 

It wasn’t his fault; not in the slightest. Malcolm had been no older than this killer himself when his father had murdered the other’s mother. There’d been nothing Malcolm could’ve done. 

He hadn’t even found the girl in the box until just after he’d turned ten. This man had been gone from his life years prior to that. 

In reality, Malcolm knew it wasn’t really his fault-- It couldn’t have been-- 

But still it was. 

It would always be his fault too. 

The Surgeon had been killing under Malcolm and his mother’s noses his whole life. Malcolm could’ve stopped it all, had he disobeyed and looked through his father’s hobby room earlier. Why had he been too good of a child to snoop around through his parent’s belongings? 

So, maybe he hadn’t handled the blade that killed this man’s mother. But he hadn’t prevented it either. It was unreasonable to be blaming himself, that small, overpowered whisper hidden in his brain told him, but he couldn’t help but drown under the bigger, louder voices telling him otherwise. 

Malcolm tried to cling to Gil’s voice from when he was younger-- the man telling him _you’re a hero, Malcolm_ and _you saved a lot of people tonight_ , and even, _you were just a kid, Bright. There’s nothing you could’ve done._

He tried to hold on to anything that could possibly reign in the raging voice in his head-- the accusatory whispers that people had died under Malcolm’s watch. That he hadn’t noticed fast enough, and others paid the price for that. 

Sure, he saved a lot of people by calling the police that night, but what about the victims before that? Like the MW Slasher’s mother? Malcolm hadn’t killed them, but he still felt just as guilty. 

Malcolm forced himself to take a breath, pulling himself from his thoughts. 

The anger from the killer was gone now, replaced with a vulnerable frown as he stared into the flame. His hands wrung around the handle of the fire poker he was holding, and the room had faded to nothing but silence with the occasional crackle from the furnace. 

Malcolm flicked his attention back down to his lap. 

He still had so many questions. Some gaps had been filled in, but there was still so much to uncover-- and if by how the iron stamp was quickly heating for the branding to come, there wasn’t a lot of time. 

Malcolm tried to focus his hazily concussed brain on the man’s face. 

Where he knew it. When he’d known it. 

They’d have been in, what? The second grade? 

He managed to put himself back in that second-grade classroom; some snobby high class elementary school for the privileged. His mother’s choice, of course. 

His mind shifted through his peers at the time, studying the blurry faces of his classmates; looking for anyone who fit the profile. Anyone who resembled the man before him. 

He knew this man. Had when he was little. He remembered Malcolm, but Malcolm didn’t remember him. Why is that? 

There was just one kid Malcolm had always wondered about. 

One peer who’d been there on Friday, never to be seen again that following Monday. 

The only kid his mother had sadly shaken her head at when Malcolm had questioned his friend’s whereabouts, hugging him close and whispering that his friend had moved away unexpectedly. 

And his name had been-- 

“Donovan Michaels.” 

The killer turned to Malcolm in surprise, eyeing him thoughtfully. His eyebrows furrowed and a frown tugged at his lips. The reaction was confirmation enough that Malcolm was right. That he’d figured out who this man was, and how Malcolm knew him. 

The MW Slasher’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, so Malcolm added a concussion-slurred, “I am a profiler, Donovan. This is _kinda_ my job. We went to kindergarten, first and second grade together, right?” 

“Hmph,” Donovan gave an almost impressed nod, “you’re the brain of that little police operation of yours, aren’t you? How could I forget that?” 

“Well,” Malcolm forced the small, fond smile off his lips at the thought of his team, “I wouldn’t go that far. I am quite good though. I’ve been told I’m very good at getting in the mind of killers.” 

“I’ll bet, with who your father is,” Donovan snarked. “Wouldn’t surprise me if you were his protege or something, Whitly.” 

**Oh! I like him, my boy! I would’ve loved if we’d worked together! You really should’ve taken more of an interest in my hobbies. You did spend a lot of time in my hobby room.**

Malcolm furrowed his eyebrows in annoyance as his father’s fond voice echoed forward from the back of his mind. Malcolm dropped his attention to his lap, frowning hard before he piped up; just barely audibly, “I’m not a killer.” 

He wasn’t sure if he was saying it to Donovan, or his father-- or possibly to convince himself? 

Donovan gave a hum of acknowledgement, not turning back from the furnace, clearly not convinced in the slightest. 

Malcolm couldn’t help but keep his profile going. At this point it was more so for himself than to really solve the case. This was more personal than he’d first believed. 

He hadn’t even thought to link the MW of the branding stamp to Martin Whitly, or even to himself, Malcolm Whitly. It was absurd that twenty years later and the Surgeon’s misdoings were still ruining Malcolm’s life. 

Malcolm shook away the hate for his father burning in his heart, forcing himself back to Donovan. 

His school-friend was experiencing bouts of extreme emotions, Malcolm noted. Intense anger, to sadness, then a quick jump to indifference. A mask when he realized he’d let his emotions slip. 

Malcolm was sure Donovan hadn’t planned on digging his nails so deep in Malcolm’s forearm that he’d torn the skin in five small, deep nail holes that were now bleeding down Malcolm’s arm. He’d been quick to withdraw, leaving blood-smudged fingerprints beside the wounds as he pulled back. 

Malcolm’s thought process stalled on the possibility that Donovan had severe Borderline Personality Disorder; which would explain a lot of his mental thought process now. The abusive farm he’d been raised on after his mother’s murder, a sense of abandonment from losing his mother and his home at a young age. 

The farm had even come into play with not just his murders, but how he’d kidnapped Malcolm as well; how the killer branded his victims with the horse brand, to how he slit their throats like one would slaughter livestock. Even to the knots the killer had keeping Malcolm restrained-- popular with keeping pigs neutralized. 

It was all there. 

Malcolm didn’t mention his findings quite yet. Last thing he needed now was to anger Donovan into another bout of uncontrolled rage. 

“This is almost ready for you, Whitly,” Donovan called, and Malcolm dragged his attention away from his lap to see the other man spinning the iron stamp in the furnace. “I can’t wait to hear you scream; I’m sure your little cop buddies will enjoy the show. I hope Arroyo likes listening to you plead for it to stop-- the girls all did that too.” 

“They can hear this too?” Malcolm’s breath stuttered in his chest. He’d thought it was just a visual, he didn’t see a microphone of any quality. Just the thought that they were listening made his heart hammer fearfully in his chest. 

“Of course, they can hear; the screaming’s the best part.” 

He suddenly couldn’t breathe-- it was one thing for them to be watching, but another for them to hear any sounds of pain from Malcolm; the weakness and vulnerability clouding his pained screams and-- wait, Malcolm froze as his brain finally caught up to the second part, wheezing out a panicked stammer of: “Arroyo?” 

More questions raised in Malcolm’s head. 

He could understand the grudge on the Surgeon, as well as the grudge he had on Malcolm due to family relations. If the guy couldn’t get to the Surgeon who was tucked away peacefully in Claremont Psychiatrics', then his kin would be the next best thing. 

But Gil? What had Gil done? 

“What did Gil Arroyo do?” Malcolm asked as calmly as he could manage, “he brought the Surgeon in, didn’t he? He saved so many lives, Donovan. He brought the Surgeon to justice, put him away where he can’t hurt anyone else.” 

“He did it too late,” Donovan snarled, “fat lot of good Gil Arroyo did for my mom. He made it big off the Surgeon though, all those promotions that took him from officer to Lieutenant in the snap of your finger-- what a hero, collecting fame off a monster like the Surgeon.” 

Donovan paused, shooting a disgusted look back at Malcolm, “I’ve been watching, you know. You Whitly’s, and the cop to bring in the Surgeon. You all just _love_ the spotlight, don’t you? I spent my childhood being the last thought on anyone’s mind, while you were constantly making headlines.” 

That explained the killer’s flamboyant flare when it came to his murders. The placement of the bodies in popular areas to be found almost instantly. He wanted them to be covered on the news. He wanted his work to be seen-- he wanted to be in the spotlight, even if his face wasn’t. 

“Do you think we wanted to be on the news constantly?” Malcolm spoke before he could stop himself. He hated that that’s what people thought. They’d suffered, but all anyone could do was make a story out of it. To exploit them and their pain for views. 

**That’s really smart right now, Malcolm. You know, back talking the one who holds your _life_ in his _hands_? Real clever.**

Malcolm gave an irritated growl. “You’re right, the Surgeon is a monster. He ruined your life; he ruined _my_ life. He ruined my mother’s life, and my sister’s life, _and_ about twenty-three other victim’s, at least, and their family’s lives as well. Martin Whitly is a monster.” 

**Hey, that’s offensive! Be careful, Malcolm, you’re letting your daddy issues show again.**

“You want sympathy from me?” Donovan’s face hardened into a glare that bore into Malcolm’s soul, “the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, _Whitly_.” 

**He’s got a point there, my little apple.**

And Malcolm wanted to _scream_. 

“Of course not,” Malcolm tried to stop himself from snapping. Snapping wouldn’t help anything-- if anything it might speed up the process, which Malcolm didn’t really want. “I don’t want sympathy from anyone. My father’s a killer. I’m not a victim. We’re not the same in that sense, I know that.” 

Malcolm didn’t bother bringing up the fact that his life had been in shambles from the time he’d hit double digits and up. That he’d had the psychological aspect of having a serial killer for a father weighting over him before his pre-teen years, and that he’d literally had to change his name to get a moment’s peace from who he was. 

Donovan was far past the ability to comprehend any sort of alternate explanation to the one he’d been paving out from himself for years. Watching from the shadows as his anger manifested. Seeing only what he wanted to see and nothing else on the matter. 

Donovan didn’t say anything beyond that, turning his glare back to the furnace. 

Malcolm stared long and hard at the killer’s back. Studying him. Building his profile. Trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong. He’d gotten information, but nowhere near enough to piece it all together. 

“So, do you prefer Donovan, or the _MW Slasher_?” Malcolm finally breathed out, tearing his attention away from the killer. The man didn’t say anything, nor turn to even glance at Malcolm, which silently irked the one tied to the chair, “you know, I don’t understand this.” 

“Understand what?” At least that got the killer’s attention. That he was finally humoring him. 

“I don’t fit your taste.” Malcolm told him honestly, “you’ve taken seven girls. And they fit a specific profile-- a taste. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. I don’t fit that. I’m not a woman, and I don’t have blonde hair. The eyes I can see, but the rest? It doesn’t line up.” 

“You’re right,” Donovan turned to Malcolm, stepping to lean against the wall behind the camera. “Malcolm Whitly had disappeared from everything when you, what? Fifteen? Just… _poof_ , and he was gone. But he wasn’t dead. That would’ve made headlines-- the Surgeon’s Prodigal Son dead.” 

Malcolm gave a wary nod of understanding, because it certainly would’ve. A lot of people probably would’ve been happy to see the serial killer’s son gone-- Donovan certainly wasn’t the only one who was skeptical of Malcolm’s innocence. 

“I still kept tabs. On Gil, on your mother. On that _cute_ little sister of yours--” 

Malcolm froze, mouth drying out at where this was going. Donovan didn’t even have to finish it-- in fact, Malcolm would very much prefer he not finish what he was saying. 

It was clear now… who all the victims suddenly resembled. Malcolm felt bile rising as he envisioned his little sister’s face on the bodies of the victims they’d found. 

Ainsley dead, with their father’s initials scorched on her wrist. 

**I don’t know how much I like him now that I know he was going for my little girl…**

“You figured it out, huh?” The killer grinned, “you really are a profiler, I guess.” 

He paused for a second, poking around at the coal, “it wasn’t hard to find her. Quite the little reporter she is, isn’t she? But then… then I found you again. That stupid alias didn’t disguise you for very long, Whitly. You haven’t changed much, grown up a bit, maybe. Working with Arroyo too, figures. It was easy to put that together.” 

Malcolm swallowed, unable to stop thinking about Ainsley sitting in his current position. Her hands and ankles bound to the chair, with the threat of the hot iron stamp waved around threateningly. 

“You were the obvious choice though-- I mean, three birds with one stone, right? The Surgeon’s son kicks the bucket and he gets to feel _that_ pain while he rots away in his cell. I set up this little live stream for Lieutenant Arroyo to watch you die; to suffer knowing he can’t save you like I worried for days when my mommy didn’t come home. And, well, I don’t think I ever did like you, Malcolm. Too much of a know-it-all, even when we were little.” 

“Three birds with one stone,” Malcolm croaked in reply. 

“I could’ve gone for Ainsley, had planned too since you’d dropped off the radar. It probably would’ve been easier too, but I couldn’t resist you. I couldn’t resist making the police suffer watching their friend--” 

**Some friends they are, leaving you here for so long. It’s been what? Over twenty-four hours? Forty-eight? Are you not priority to them, my boy? Remember how they treated you?**

“I don’t have friends,” Malcolm snapped. “They don’t even like me, Donovan. You’re chasing something that doesn’t exist.” 

“Arroyo likes you though,” Donovan grinned, “I could care less about the girl cop, and that other one you hung around with, this is all for Arroyo. It’s just a bonus that they’ll be watching their profiler die too. I consider it a win.” 

“They don’t care about me,” Malcolm let his chin drop against his chest. “How… how could they? I’m my father’s son.” 

**Why not say that with a bit more pride next time, my boy.**

“Glad you see it my way,” Donovan clucked his tongue, “it doesn’t matter if they care or not, they’ll get to watch anyways. I don’t care about you, but I still wanna see you die.” 

Malcolm’s eyes fluttered shut as his mind was clouded with incriminating thoughts. He forced a breath. Then a second, before he was looking back up, blown eyes glazed over with a haunted expression. 

He drew his thought back again. 

“Your furnace is very old.” 

Donovan blinked at the abrupt change of conversation, but strode over to the furnace to look it over with a raised eyebrow anyways. He shifted the iron rod that was certainly hot enough to melt skin now, but he still didn’t seem happy with it. 

Malcolm tried not to wince. 

“They’re illegal now,” Malcolm informed factually, “they were…” Malcolm searched for the words, brain feeling fuzzier than before, “a f…ire risk. They’re only built into… old buildings. Ones constructed prior to the eighteen-hundreds, right?” 

“Probably,” Donovan shrugged, looking the furnace over. “Why?” 

“Just curious,” Malcolm’s eyelids drooped, but he carried on. “Old builds are very interesting. Built far better than anything modern, especially if it’s still standing to the current date. It’s hard to believe with all the resources we have these days-- the world is just cheap nowadays, I suppose… And that furnace really is beautiful, it’s definitely newer than the building itself, but it still predates anything current.” 

Malcolm paused, resting his eyes, “and I can only imagine the _smoke_ that beauty creates.” 

Donovan gave Malcolm a curious look. Malcolm forced himself to sit up as much as he could manage in the chair, and if his hands weren’t restrained, he would’ve waved off the other’s curious look, “oh, I have a fascination with old relics. Usually swords, and axes, but I can get behind a good furnace as well. And old buildings, ooh, don’t even get me started on those--” 

“So, you’re still weird then, huh Whitly?” Donovan curled his nose up at Malcolm. 

The space between Malcolm’s eyebrows creased as he frowned. He chose not to reply to that. Not a whole lot in Malcolm’s life could even be considered normal-- he’d never be anything other than weird. 

“You know,” Malcolm said instead, “you never did tell my how you found that string of women who all fit your taste. I mean, it would’ve been hard to just find a new girl, several days in a row, on the street who caught your eye-- even harder to kidnap them under the radar. So, how’d you do it?” 

Donovan blinked at Malcolm, clearly trying to decide what he was playing at. “And why should I tell you?” 

“A dying man’s last wish?” Malcolm prompted, shoulders lifting, only to slouch by down in a heavy shrug. His body was getting heavier by the minute. “My team’s good, but they’re not good enough to find us-- especially not with me gone. I just want to know how you did it, to give me just a bit of peace of mind before I... y’know...” 

Donovan hesitated for a second longer, eyeing Malcolm from the pale, sick looking complexion, to his concussion lidded eyes. “…Tinder.” 

“Ah, Tinder,” Malcolm gave an understanding nod. 

It lined up. 

He could single in on girls, swipe through their profile pictures and photos-- chat them up in the messages section of the site. Donovan was a good-looking guy, so Malcolm doubted he had trouble reeling in dates. 

Just another reason Malcolm tended to stay off the site-- 

“So you just--” 

“Enough questions,” Donovan narrowed his eyes. He turned swiftly away from looking at Malcolm, towards the furnace where he grabbed the handle of the iron stamp. The tip glowed a bright red, and Malcolm found himself wincing at the colour. 

Donovan inspected the stamp, looking between it and Malcolm, seemingly deciding if the stamp was to his liking yet-- “Guess what time it is, Whitly?” --which, it apparently was. 

Malcolm did his best to shift away as Donovan came towards him with the stamp. The chair only had so much give, and Malcolm didn’t get anywhere before he was flat against the back of the chair. 

He couldn’t pull his wrist away, and no matter how much he tried to fight Donovan off-- he was no match. He was tied to a chair, and his limbs were already weak from lack of circulation. His hands were the palest of blue at this point, and he was sure his feet weren’t much better. 

Donovan cursed under his breath as he forced Malcolm’s forearm against the arm of the chair, putting enough pressure on it that if Malcolm moved just as much as an inch off the armrest, his arm would likely snap under the weight. 

“Please, please, Donovan-- I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what my father did. You didn’t deserve it, your mother didn’t--” 

“Shut up!” 

“I’m sorry.” Malcolm didn’t stop. He pleaded desperately, “you don’t have to do this, I’m sorry. _Please_. Please don’t--” 

Malcolm felt every fiber of his skin ignite into flames as the iron touched down on his wrist. He held off for about… maybe half a second, before he was screaming his voice hoarse. 

The scream ripped through his mouth before he could really try to contain it for his team’s sake (should they even really be watching). He begged and pleaded through pained tears, thrashing to get away which was not help at all with his wrists restrained, and Donovan’s weight holding him down. 

It was the worst pain he’d ever felt in his life-- and he had the highest pain tolerance of anyone he knew. The pain shot up his arm, and down to his fingertips, and for a moment Malcolm was glad he’d already lost so much feeling in his hand in fingers, or he was sure it would’ve been tenfold worse. 

He sobbed at the pain, unable to do anything more than endure it. To let it happen. 

His cells sizzled against the hot metal, and the smell of the hot iron sinking into his skin made Malcolm gag between his desperate sobs of pain. Burning flesh wasn’t a pretty scent. It was almost as bad as the pain searing along his arm. 

Donovan kept the iron down for five seconds at least; a sick, twisted smile curling onto his lips as he watched the skin surrounding Malcolm’s new branding blister angrily. Satisfaction crossed Donovan’s face as Malcolm’s body finally submitted to the pain, going completely lax against his restraints. 

He watched as Malcolm’s head lulled down as he passed out from the pain. He’d lasted far longer than any of the girls who he’d branded before. It didn’t surprise him. 

Donovan finally pulled the branding stamp off, staring down at his handy work with a smile. It wasn’t as pretty as the others he’d done, but then again, this wasn’t bait. This was his revenge for his mother’s sake. 

He’d known as he let the stamp heat far beyond what would been necessary to leave a shallow branding on skin. The stamp had been hotter this time than any other, far hotter. Special for Malcolm. 

Besides, a dead man can’t see what’s on his wrist anyways. He didn’t need to make it look pretty; all he’d needed to do was make sure Malcolm had his rightful branding on his wrist. That he’d die knowing who he was: Malcolm Whitly, the Surgeon’s son. 

Donovan returned the stamp to its home beside the furnace. He put out the flame now that the work was done. The iron was still bright red, but the concrete walls wouldn’t catch on fire. 

He spared a glance back at the table holding his blade-- the one that had taken several lives before Malcolm, before his eyes settled on the Surgeon’s son. He’d killed all those girls while they were unconscious, it was far easier to make it look nice when they weren’t moving. 

It would be quick and easy if Whitly was unconscious. 

He’d wait. 

Donovan moved towards the camera, leaning in close to smile at the viewers, “I hope you liked the show, Lieutenant and team. It’ll be more fun to kill him when he’s awake and begging for his life again, so you enjoy these last few hours with him still alive, alright?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! Asking the very important question of if I should kill Donovan off for the bad things he’s done to our Bright boi, or should I let him live? I'm not sure which direction to take it, so your opinions will be greatly appreciated! 
> 
> Also, can we just take a second to talk about last night's new episode? Without any spoilers in this notes section for anyone who hasn't seen yet (because not everyone has seen it and these notes don't really give you the option to not read), it fucked me up. Like wow, someone needs to give Malcolm a hug. Spoilers are welcome in the comments, if you wanna go off (I'd love to go off with you), so if you haven't seen the episode yet, be warned they may possibly be spoilers below?
> 
> Anyways! Comments, as always, are greatly appreaciated, as are kudos. The next chapter is going to be the team's side of the story, and it's pretty long so far! Thanks for reading <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! A bit of a longer update because there's dialogue from previous chapters! Everything said between Malcolm and the MW Slasher will be in italics for easier viewing. I tried not to drag it out too much, or spend too much time on things you've already seen, but it'll all be from Gil and the team's perspective. 
> 
> As a bit of a disclaimer! I'm no doctor! There'll be medical stuff in the next few chapters. I've tried with research to make things realistic, but if they're wrong, apologies in advance! Google can only take you so far!
> 
> Anywho! Enjoy!

They had nothing. 

The email that sent them the link to the live stream had been a random email that tracked back to nothing. The location the email had been sent from was a bar in town, and when Gil had sent a couple officers to check it out, they’d returned with a single burner phone that none of the staff had seen anyone leave behind. 

Not a single fingerprint on it. 

The live stream couldn’t be tracked, IT had told them the kidnapper was using a VPN to disguise where the real signal was coming from. There were just three signals to follow, but none made any sense. The first appeared to be coming from England, the second, Australia, and the third was coming from Canada. 

All too far for the kidnapper to have gotten Bright there without running into trouble, and in the short time span Malcolm had been missing. 

Still, they had officers in contact with the English, Australian, and Canadian police to track to the sources of the signals. Gil didn’t expect to hear back for a while. 

Besides, Gil had a gut feeling his kid was still somewhere in New York, and he really hoped it wasn’t just wishful thinking. 

Gil stared hard at the medium TV that had been wheeled into his Major Crimes room, the one that was hooked up to a computer and monitor to give them a bigger picture, rather than a regular computer screen. 

He was unable to draw his attention from the kid-- _his_ kid-- and the daze look in his eyes as he stared just over the top of the camera recording him. 

He wasn’t looking at the lens, just above it. 

Malcolm looked awful; from the dirtied skin, to the ripped clothes. His hands were bound to his chair, and Gil could see them losing colour-- he’d give anything right now to be able to at least cut the ropes cutting off Malcolm’s circulation. 

The team was there with him-- all three of them had been since they’d found out Malcolm had been abducted that afternoon. It was almost five AM now, but Gil didn’t feel tired at all. He wasn’t sure he could even entertain the idea of taking a rest while one of his guys was stranded somewhere unknown, with some random kidnapper. 

Dani was on Gil’s right. She was staring intently down at Malcolm’s phone. Looking through his texts, his photos, his call history-- for anything of any usefulness. There didn’t appear to be a link between Malcolm and his kidnapper, but he wasn’t going to tell Dani to give it a rest. 

He didn’t have the heart to do that-- there was so little evidence to work with, and they were missing an important part of their team. No one wanted to just sit around and feel useless. 

He watched as her eyes lifted every so often, lingering on Malcolm’s hunched form for no longer than a second or two before she forced her attention away. Like she could bear to see him like that. 

Gil agreed with the notion. 

It broke his heart to see Malcolm like that. Looking at that screen and seeing nothing but that ten-year-old little Malcolm who’d both saved his life and won over his heart in just a few hours. 

He was too close to this case, he knew. To close to Malcolm, as he lost himself picturing that ten-year-old boy he’d known in the restraints Malcolm was held in. 

He was too close, but there wasn’t a chance in hell that he’d allow anyone who wasn’t his team on this case. This was their guy, and no one else was worthy enough to work on it-- especially after how everyone was so quick to raise their guns whenever Malcolm so much as stepped out of line. 

Those weren’t people Gil trusted to protect his kid. 

JT wasn’t much better than himself and Dani, looking through the traffic cams again and again, re-watching that small, minute and a half sector where Malcolm had been whacked on the back of the head and thrown into the car like he was nothing but a weightless rag doll. 

Like Dani, JT would look up at the live video, but he watched far longer than Dani could managed. A minute-- two sometimes. Eyes trained on their profiler with a dark frown permanently engraved on his face. 

More often than not, Gil forgot he was looking at a live stream. Malcolm was so still that it looked like a photo. Or that he looked dead. 

The camera was far enough away from him that you couldn’t really see the kid breathing-- Gil had thought Malcolm was dead more than once while watching, but then Malcolm’s head would lull, or his eyes would blink shut, only to be forced back open. His lips would move in the slightest way, muttering something to himself that couldn’t be heard, or his fingers would tense before relaxing again. 

Sometimes he’d even draw in a deeper breath that always sent a flood of relief through Gil’s body. Those small little reminders that Malcolm was still kicking, that they hadn’t lost him yet. 

Edrisa had joined them in the room a while back-- not for long. For a woman who spent a lot of time with dead bodies, the look of Bright so close to the people on her exam table seemed to have shaken her to the core. 

She’d given the screen one look before averting her attention with a heavy swallow, eyes sweeping over the team before mustering up the courage to look again. 

“His eyes are blown,” Edrisa had breathed out after a second of blocking the screen, nose pushed against the television, almost nose to nose with Bright through the screen, “he’s definitely got a concussion-- a pretty serious one, if by he’s struggling to keep himself awake and how his attention keeps drifting.” 

“Damn,” JT voiced what they were all thinking. 

“It was a pretty solid hit to the head,” Dani reminded, voice stilted. “The kidnapper used some real force…” 

JT had then shown Edrisa the video of Malcolm taking the hit, which may or may not have been a good idea as their ME winced back at the collision ducking her eyes to her lap before she’d even seen Malcolm get tossed into the van. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a skull fracture after a hit like that… it’s really amazing he’s conscious at all.” Her voice was small, “there’s not much I can say without… without _seeing_ him. Without a CT, or being able to talk to him…” 

Edrisa took a step back, stumbling over her own feet. 

This wasn’t something she dealt with. She worked with dead bodies-- the bodies of people she didn’t know. She didn’t see the victims alive. 

Asking her to do this live stream medical examination was almost cruel-- but they were all in a tough spot, and Gil trusted Edrisa to give him honest answers. He trusted her examination. 

“The ropes are too tight,” Edrisa swallowed, “the… the flexing he’s doing is good. It’s forcing circulation, but it’ll only work for so long. The ropes are digging in to tight, it’s hard for blood flow to reach his fingertips and toes. It’s… not cut off completely, which is good, but… He’s got… I don’t know, maybe twelve hours before he loses the feeling all together? Eighteen before the damage is irreversible?” 

The ME forced out a breath, ducking her face once again, “I’m sorry, I can’t…” She didn’t have to say it, “I can’t stay here. I can’t see Bright like--” 

“It’s okay,” Dani told her, voice just as heavy with emotion as Edrisa’s, “we’re all there with you on this, Edrisa. You’ve helped a lot.” 

Gil blew out a breath, dragging his fingers through his hair stressfully, “thank you, Edrisa.” 

The ME gave a nod, swallowing heavily before she was excusing herself, stepping out of the office with one last lingering look on the chair Malcolm usually claimed at their table. 

So far, the hit to the head was the most worrying injury-- at least that they could see. The roped would gradually become a bigger issue as the hours ticked by, but the concussion was what was the biggest threat to their boy. 

“So we have… roughly eighteen hours to find Bright and get him medical treatment before he loses… before…” 

“Yeah,” Gil forced out weakly. 

Dani’s eyebrows furrowed in worry, the tension in the room heavy. 

Edrisa had been the embodiment of them all, just with less control of her emotions. They’d dealt with surviving victims before, so they knew how to hold it together even when they wanted to break. 

Gil’s eyes settled on Malcolm’s slouched frame, vowing silently to find his kid at all cost.

* * *

The hours continued to tick by. The team hadn’t furthered the case along any more than they had hours prior. They had so little to work with, solving this case with what they had would need a miracle worker, and it just so happened their strongest link to solving the case, happened to be the case. 

Gil had gotten used to cases closing in a swift, timely manner. Malcolm was honestly the best profiler around, with an IQ up to par. His team had been wary of the profiler, but he’d shown his value after just that second case they all worked on together. 

Gil was almost surprised with how fast his team had come around to the idea of the kid sticking around. 

It was hard for even JT to deny Malcolm wasn’t useful to them. Edrisa might not even be here to this day, had Malcolm not been there at the beginning of their family annihilator case. 

He’d been a major part of their speedy turnover times with the homicides and murders they were up against. Collecting details, and relying heavily at Bright’s near constantly perfect profiles. 

They really owed a lot to Malcolm. The team had been strong before Bright, of course, but his aid had skyrocketed their success rate. Malcolm was a big part of how quickly they took out serial killers threatening New York. 

It was only now that the profiler wasn’t here, that Gil found himself really missing the help. Not just Malcolm, and what he meant to Gil, but the kid’s crazy talent of building his profiles. 

He didn’t even want to think about the team without Malcolm now. He’d really become one of them, weaseling his way into Dani and JT’s hearts, just like he’d done to Gil all those many years ago. 

The video hadn’t changed much. Malcolm’s consciousness wavered, and his body would go lax before perking back up. He continued to flex his fingers, and his feet shifted against the ropes every so often as well. 

Gil had been watching the screen intently when Malcolm’s gaze locked on the camera’s lens for just a second before his eyes lowered to his lap, head lulling forwards. Gil had almost assumed the kid had passed out. 

Until his body tensed. 

JT and Dani both looked up as Gil shifted uncomfortably where he was sitting on the edge of the table in front of the screen. Something had spooked Malcolm. 

Someone came into view-- young, Caucasian, dark hair. Gil’s eyebrows furrowed as this person moved down the stairs behind Malcolm, pausing at his side when-- _“Are you having fun, Whitly?”_

The wheels on Dani’s chair screeched as she shot up, JT’s own stunned gaze matching Gil’s. There was a pregnant pause, where none of them knew what to say-- 

There was sound. 

There’d been no sound whatsoever. They’d just assumed it was just a video feed, since they couldn’t hear anything. The microphone wasn’t the best quality, but it was clear enough for them to hear-- especially as Gil dove to turn the volume on the television up. 

_“If I say yes, will you let me go?”_ Gil wanted to cry at hearing the kid’s voice. But instead, he struggled to pull in another breath of oxygen at the croak of Malcolm’s voice. It broke as he spoke, raspy and tired. 

“He’s provoking his kidnapper,” JT furrowed his eyebrows uncertainly at Malcolm, as the profiler’s gaze followed his kidnapper off to the side, and just out of view. “That dude is insane.” 

“So it’s not just us he’s sarcastic with,” Dani huffed, as a tiny smile graced her lips, before it was wiped away at the seriousness of the situation. Her face returned to the stony-nervous expression Gil loathed to see on her. 

_“You never did know how to hold your tongue.”_

The trio exchanged looks, ones resembling the thoughtful look on Malcolm’s face. Bright knew this person. This person knew Malcolm. He knew Malcolm passed his alias of ‘Malcolm Bright’. He’d had called him Whitly. 

_“You keep talking like you know me, which, I mean you must’ve known me at some point-- you do know my name. My real name. Not many people do.”_

Because nothing slipped passed Bright. But that just meant Malcolm didn’t remember his captor. It was one-sided. 

_“We go way back.”_

“Dammit,” Gil groaned, lifting a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose in annoyance, “he’s profiling his captor. Dammit, Bright.” 

“He doesn’t know how he knows this guy,” Dani observed, moving to lean against the table beside Gil. 

“This guy obviously knows Bright though,” JT added, shifting just slightly to the right so he could see the screen from where he was sitting now that Dani had joined Gil. 

Malcolm continued on, testing his luck as the kidnapper did whatever it was he was doing off to the side. There were noises; hard to hear with the quality of the mic, but they could just slightly hear. Malcolm seemed to be interested in whatever the kidnapper was doing, head angled as he tracked his movements. 

Their profiler was still rambling words, as what sounded like rocks being dumped into a metal bin echoed just barely in the room. 

“What is he doing off camera?” Dani questioned softly. They all listened close as Gil turned up the volume a couple more notches. 

“Is that… _fire_?” JT’s eyes widened. Now that JT had said it, Gil could hear the flames. The flicker of a fire just off camera. His breath stunted at the thought that this kidnapper was going to burn Bright, but then he looked at Malcolm, who didn’t look fearful of being burned alive. 

“A fireplace, maybe?” Dani suggested with a frown, “Bright doesn’t look too afraid-- it’s not a threat, or, he doesn’t think it’s a threat, at least.” 

“Possibly,” Gil swallowed. 

The Lieutenant forced his attention back onto the words being exchanged. Malcolm’s low voice saying: _“Surely nothing I did in our elementary years could warrant this? Maybe I can fix whatever I did.”_

Gil wanted to be surprised that Malcolm had already dwindle down to when he’d known this man-- the one holding him captive. He wanted to be, but he couldn’t because he knew Bright was damn good at what he did. He’d be surprised if Bright _hadn’t_ done it. 

_“You can’t fix it,”_ the kidnapper snapped. And for the first time since Malcolm had shown up on their screens, the kid looked terrified. Wild eyes following the kidnapper back to where he paused at a table. _“No one can fix it. You Whitlys are the scum of the earth-- frankly, I’m doing the world a favor by getting rid of you.”_

“He’s got a knife!” Dani cried out, pointing to the kidnapper returning to Malcolm with a shiny knife clutched in his hand. Gil leaned forward to watch, feeling helpless as the blade was waved around Malcolm’s body. The kid was scared-- rightfully so. 

“He’s going to kill him!” JT cursed, tensing up and leaning in to see it better. A protectiveness that was virtually useless to their profiler. 

Malcolm’s abductor took his sleeve into his hand and sliced through the material with one heavy tug. The clothes split along the blade, but Malcolm had frozen completely with the weapon so close to him. 

Gil blinked at the action, studying the abductor as he ripped Malcolm’s sleeve up the rest of the way, letting it fall from his fingers just before he hit the shoulder. That was... odd? 

“What… what is he doing?” Dani whispered in confusion. 

The three of them were intently watching the screen-- there wasn’t much they could to besides hope something would clue them in to Bright’s whereabouts. 

“I don’t know,” Gil’s hand covered his own mouth, eyes trailing Malcolm’s face. The way his kid relaxed as soon as the knife was pulled away and his kidnapper stepped away. 

And then, like a switched had been flipped, the profiler in Malcolm was back. 

_“You Whitly’s?”_ Malcolm questioned, voice still wavering from the fear. Gil’s own heart was beating out of his chest, so he could only assume Malcolm was seconds away from a heart attack. _“That makes me think it wasn’t my doing at all-- that… makes me think you knew me before…”_

“Don’t say it,” Gil pleaded, already knowing where this was going. Where Bright was taking it, and he prayed, for the kid’s sake that it wasn’t true. “C’mon, Kid, don’t say it.” 

_“...before my father--”_

“And he said it,” Gil gave a heavy sigh. He dug the palms of his hands into his eyes, completely tired, but very awake with the adrenaline to get Bright back coursing through his veins. 

“He really can’t escape his father, can he?” Dani’s voice was small beside Gil. She looked sad that everything in Malcolm’s life revolved around his serial killer father, when all Malcolm wanted to do was help people. 

_“What?”_ the snap of the kidnapper’s voice forced all eyes in the room back to the screen, their surprise heavy at the intensity of it. Gil seethed as he watched the kidnapper push into Malcolm’s space, nails digging into his kid’s freshly exposed arm. Blood pooled out of the wounds, but Malcolm didn’t seem phased, in fact, he looked haunted. _“Before your father killed my mom, Whitly?”_

“Oh shit,” JT gaped. 

Oh shit indeed. There was the motive behind this. Because everything always maanged to lead back to Martin Whitly. 

This was so much worse than Gil had expected. This wasn’t a ransom kidnapping. This wasn’t to send a message to the police, like Gil had first expected when they’d gotten the link to the stream. This was revenge. 

The killer continued to talk, speaking to Malcolm. Explaining himself in a way only Malcolm could really understand. Gil eyes focused on his kid, but he wasn’t really seeing. 

Malcolm was in serious danger. And it was all from relation. Malcolm was an innocent party, but he was related to the Surgeon, so he was paying his father’s debts. It was fucked up, but what in Malcolm’s life wasn’t at this point? 

“He’s going to kill him,” Dani whispered again, her eyes locked on the wall, but just as unseeing as Gil’s had been. Shock. She was in shock. 

This was territory none of them had ever been in. A hostage situation, a couple times. But one of their own? Definitely not. 

“We won’t let that happen,” Gil snapped, but there was no anger behind it. It still broke Dani from her unseeing stare and she turned watery eyes towards Gil. 

_“I was sent to a farm, you know?”_ Gil looked up at the screen with the kidnapper’s voice filled his ears. It sounded promising. Information. And they desperately needed information. 

“JT, I want you on that. Copy everything he says now, it’s got to be _something_ of use. Hurry.” JT, the only one with a laptop in front of him, did as told. Gil knew they were both looking for guidance at this point, and Gil didn’t know how to give it to them with this case hitting so close to home. 

_“I was this rich kid, from your circle sent to some lowly farm where I was nothing but free labor. I learned a lot, Whitly. How to brand a horse. How to tie a hog. How to slaughter an animal. And when I didn’t do it right, I got beat.”_

“Dammit, that doesn’t help,” Gil growled, carding a hand through his hair before giving a stressed tug to ground himself. “He’s censoring himself! Dammit!” 

Gil took a second to take a few breaths, before finally fixing his attention back on the screen, listening to the voices. 

_“I told you, you can try and hide from it, but you can’t. You can change your name, and your look. But you can’t change who you are. You’re nothing but a monster like your father.”_

Gil squeezed his eyes shut. 

Malcolm was going to spiral. He could already see it in the kid’s eyes-- the comparison between him and his father. It was cruel. This kidnapper was hitting Malcolm where it hurt the most. 

If there was one thing the kid couldn’t handle, it was being called a monster. It broke him. Dug into him, because he tried to be so different from his father. He tried not to be what people thought he was. 

Malcolm’s eyes were caught on something on the other side of the room where the kidnapper had disappeared-- over by where the fire was. He looked terrified, and it hurt Gil to see. 

Malcolm struggled against his restraints, and Dani sucked in a pained breath as they watched the restraints dig into Malcolm’s skin, blood soaking into the rope as he fought against it. 

“Does he have a gun?” JT’s voice was hoarse, eyes locked on Malcolm’s squirming frame. 

_“You’re your father’s son, Malcolm Whitly, and I’m going to make sure you never forget who you are again. And then I’m gonna kill you-- rid the world of another monster.”_

_“I’m sorry.”_

The apology was soft. 

So soft Gil almost missed it. He strained to hear it, and when he did, his face scrunched up like he’d eaten a slice of lemon. He hated it when Malcolm did that. When Malcolm let things get to him. Apologized for things he had no connection to-- apologized for his father. 

He wanted to smack the kid across the back of the head for apologizing for something that wasn’t his fault in the slightest, but at the same time he wanted to wrap the kid in his arms and tell him how good he was. 

There was nothing for a while. 

Malcolm just staring down at his lap, eyes haunted and hazy, and Gil had absolutely no idea how much of that was the concussion the kid had, and how much of it was his thoughts running wild. 

Gil bit his lip, ignoring the metallic taste on his tongue as his teeth broke skin. 

It was quiet on the other end of the live stream. Malcolm didn’t say anything-- barely moved. Gil could hear his captor moving around, doing something just out of view of the camera and then Malcolm perked up ever so slightly, head lulling in his captor’s direction. 

_“Donovan Michaels.”_

“Get on it,” Gil ordered instantly to which ever one got to it first. They knew what to do. Run the name through their databases. Search it online. Get any information they could. Anything of any importance. Anything to help the case. 

A small, proud smile curled on Malcolm’s lips. Then, the kid was talking again, and Gil felt sick at how Malcolm’s words slurred. _“I am a profiler, Donovan. This is kinda my job. We went to kindergarten, first and second grade together, right?”_

It was like when the kid drank alcohol after taking his meds. His brain still working, but his body and mouth no quite able to keep up. The slurs made Gil’s stomach churn. They really needed to find him. 

Malcolm could only get worse at this point. 

The kidnapper gave a hum of acknowledgement from out of view, _“you’re the brain of that little police operation of yours, aren’t you? How could I forget that?”_

_“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. I am quite good though.”_

“Modest little bastard, ain’t he?” JT eyes were bright at hearing Malcolm’s voice almost sound normal. Gil managed his own smile before it dropped again. 

“He should be here,” Dani snapped in reply, like she’d been stewing on it instead of listening to JT, “he should be here to solve his own kidnapping case-- we’re lost without him.” 

Gil only ducked his head. 

He couldn’t argue that. They were lost without him. They’d gotten so used to have Malcolm around. To having him to help, and to solve the case and to just be there. Even when they didn’t necessarily want him around-- he was still always around. 

It was hitting them all. Gil couldn’t be mad at Dani’s snap of anger at the situation. If he didn’t need to be keeping himself in check for his subordinate’s sake, he’d have probably punched a hole in the wall. 

This wasn’t an easy situation. There was no right, or wrong way to act here. 

_“This is almost ready for you, Whitly.”_ Gil forced his attention back onto the screen, watching as Malcolm’s eyes widened with fear once again. He wondered Donovan could be talking about 

“He’s got something Bright’s afraid of,” JT winced. “It takes a lot to scare that dude, so it’s gotta be pretty awful.” 

“A gun?” Dani squinted at the screen. 

“Bright’s not afraid of guns,” Gil told them, “it’s worse. Something worse than a gun.” 

_“I can’t wait to hear you scream; I’m sure your little cop buddies will enjoy the show. I hope Arroyo likes listening to you plead for it to stop-- the girls all did that too.”_

Gil tensed, just as Dani exhaled. JT froze where he was sitting, the three of the all clearly just as afraid of whatever was going to be making Malcolm scream. Some kind of torture. 

_“They can hear this too?”_ Malcolm croaked again, voice small and instantly more fearful than before. Gil forced himself to look away from Malcolm’s betrayed expression. The kid felt guilty they could hear; that he was worrying them. 

Gil had known the kid for years, and he’d never once been able to accept that people cared about him-- that they worried and didn’t expect him to be all high and mighty all the time. That it was okay for him to not be okay. To need help, and show weakness. 

It was only then, as Gil heard Malcolm mutter a confused, _“Arroyo?”_ that he realized he’d even been mentioned. His attention snapped up to the screen where Malcolm looked just as confused at the mention of Gil’s name as Gil himself did. 

“What does this dude have against you?” JT furrowed his eyebrows in question, and all Gil could give was a shrug of his own confusion. He’d never seen the man-- hadn’t even known Malcolm when the kid was in the second grade. 

“I’ve never seen him before in my life,” Gil frowned. 

Malcolm was quick to defend him, which brought a smile to Gil’s face. Even tied to a chair at the hands of some baddie, Malcolm still went the extra mile to defend someone else. Was putting all his effort into making sure someone else was okay, when he certainly wasn’t. 

Malcolm Bright had a heart of gold. It was hard to believe he was even related to Martin Whitly. 

Just like the grudge Donovan had on Malcolm, the one he had on Gil made just as little sense. It still struck a nerve-- this guy wouldn’t be the first to say something like: _“What a hero, collecting fame off a monster like the Surgeon.”_

“That’s not true,” Dani told him when she noticed Gil spacing off at the thought, “you were a hero. You and Malcolm saved so many people that night.” 

“He’s just blaming anyone, and everyone who had any connection to the Surgeon,” JT added gruffly. “You n’ Bright just have the biggest connections-- the Surgeon’s kid, and the cop to put him away.” 

Gil swallowed, giving a nod. He knew that. He knew what this kidnapper wanted. He wanted to hurt him, using Malcolm. This kidnapper wanted Gil to watch Malcolm suffer. To watch his kid get tortured. 

The conversation carried on between Malcolm and his captor. Gil could hear his kid getting angrier by the second. His tone snapping just ever so much as his body tensed in irritation. Any defense Malcolm offered went in one of Donovan’s ear and out the other. 

“Donovan Michaels really was one of the Surgeon’s victim’s kids.” Dani announced to the room. 

Gil looked back at her, prompting her to continue with just a second of eye contact. 

“Vanessa Michaels was the twelfth victim of the Surgeon-- an experiment to see how long she could survive without her lungs.” Dani recited from the site she was reading, “Donovan was sent away after identifying his mother. No family, no father. Ward of the state. His inheritance was put away until he hit eighteen.” 

“That doesn’t really help us,” Gil sucked his teeth in frustration. “Keep digging--” 

_“So, do you prefer Donovan, or the MW Slasher?”_

Gil froze, swiveling around to stare at Malcolm. The kid, of course, was looking to the side again. Watching Donovan. Watching the MW Slasher. 

Holy shit, Malcolm was with their killer. The killer they’d been stuck on since the last victim was brought in just over three days ago. 

“Oh my God,” Dani gaped. 

Gil pushed down his own worry at the thought of his kid being with the most wanted killer of the decade, instead focusing on the fact that their evidence just doubled. They had much more on the MW Slasher than they did on the guy who kidnapped Bright. 

This was good. 

But also completely terrible. 

The amount of danger Bright was in had also just doubled, if not tripled. This killer was ruthless-- had slashed several women’s throats. Burned their flesh in a trademark branding. Bright definitely wasn’t safe where he was. 

“There has to be something in the MW Slasher case. We need something. I know we’ve already been through the case multiple times, but I want everyone combing through them. Bright is at risk here. This killer’s got a live victim with him, and I’ll be damned if our profiler dies because we missed something.” 

“On it,” Dani was already spreading the cases over the table, JT reaching across to grab a file with a determined look on his face. Malcolm had just lit a fire under their asses. Gil grabbed his own file, eyes casting over it with a fine-tooth comb. 

They’d rescue Bright. 

Malcolm continued talking, filling the silence of the room. They spoke back and forth, Bright still working-- Gil rolled his eyes fondly. 

Gil divided his attention between the files and the conversation happening on Malcolm’s end. It wasn’t until Malcolm had gone deathly silent that Gil tuned in. 

_“I still kept tabs. On Gil, on your mother. On that cute little sister of yours.”_

When Gil looked back down at the victim’s photo, he jumped in shock at seeing Ainsley’s face there. Oh God. Gil looked back at the photo, but it was back to the actual victim. The scare was enough for him to be jumping into action though. 

Gil left the room the room without a word, JT and Dani barely even noticing his departure. He ordered out two teams of officers, one to watch over Jessica, and the second to tail Ainsley. 

He’d be damned if another Whitly disappeared under his nose. 

When Gil walked back in the room, both Dani and JT were staring at the screen, _“--I couldn’t resist making the police suffer watching their friend--”_

_“I don’t have friends. They don’t even like me, Donovan. You’re chasing something that doesn’t exist.”_

Gil squeezed his eyes shut. 

Malcolm was breaking. 

He knew the kid thought of Dani and JT as friends-- he always got this stupid little smile on his face whenever he saw them, or was invited to do anything-- or, even if he simply got a text from either of them. 

He was so far gone, if he was losing touch with what he knew he had. 

The MW Slasher was breaking him down, tearing down everything both Malcolm and Gil had been building for years. 

Dani looked heartbroken. Frown tugging on her lips as she looked towards Gil with an expression that broke his own heart, voice a broken whisper, “he thinks we don’t like him?” 

JT looked just as devastated, but hidden behind a better mask than Dani. 

_“They don’t care about me. How… how could they? I’m my father’s son.”_

“Bright, no,” Dani whimpered. Gil squeezed his eyes shut again. 

“He thinks we don’t care?” JT’s voice was tight with emotion he didn’t allow out. The devastation. His mouth was a straight line, but his lip wavered. “He’s our teammate. Dude’s dense if he thinks we don’t care about him.” 

Gil let out a slow breath to calm himself, “he’s deteriorating. Bright’s always had problems with this sort of stuff. The killer’s getting under his skin.” And Gil didn’t even want to think about Malcolm’s father doing the exact same thing. Malcolm had told him about the voice, and there wasn’t a doubt in Gil’s mind that Martin Whitly wasn’t making some kind of appearance in the kid’s head. 

“He’s going to die thinking we didn’t--” 

“Stop,” JT snarled at Dani before Gil could. “He’s not going to die. Bright’s like a cat, he’s got, like, nine lives or something. Malcolm survived a _black mamba_ bite; he’ll make it through this.” 

“JT’s right, Dani. Thinking like that’s not going to get us anywhere. Thinking like that’ll get Bright killed, because you’ll lose focus. We need to focus on finding him, and then we can whack some sense into that thick head of his, alright?” 

Gil wasn’t sure if he was too hard on Dani, but it needed to be said. As soon as they started losing hope, Bright was as good as dead. And that wasn’t an option. 

Dani let out a shallow breath before she was nodding, hunkering back down to comb through the files for anything of any use. JT followed her lead, but Gil couldn’t drag his eyes from Malcolm. 

_“Your furnace is very old.”_

Gil furrowed his eyebrows at Malcolm’s gaze locked onto something on the side of the room he was in. So, it wasn’t a fireplace, it was a furnace. Still didn’t have a whole lot of meaning to Gil. They’d been on the right track with the fire though. 

The killer didn’t say anything, so Malcolm carried on, filling the silence. 

_“They’re illegal now, they were… a f…ire risk. They’re only built into… old buildings. Ones constructed prior to the eighteen-hundreds, right?”_

Gil frowned at his profiler. The slurs were getting worse. Malcolm had gotten a hell of a lot paler in the past few minutes too. Gil’s heart gave a nervous thump in his chest. Time was ticking down; Malcolm’s time was running out. 

_“Probably, why?”_

_“Just curious. Old builds are very interesting. Built far better than anything modern, especially if it’s still standing to the current date. It’s hard to believe with all the resources we have these days-- the world is just cheap nowadays, I suppose… And that furnace really is beautiful, it’s definitely newer than the building itself, but it still predates anything current.”_

A pause and then Malcolm added a tired, _“and I can only imagine the smoke that beauty creates.”_

The team shared a confused look. 

What was Malcolm playing at? Why the sudden interest in the furnace? Sure, the kid liked old things-- but he liked weapons. Axes and swords, and other old weapons. He’d never batted an eyelash at a _furnace_. 

“He’s losing it,” JT frowned, “he doesn’t have enough to be losing any more, but he’s losing it anyways.” 

“I hope he’s alright,” Dani fretted, forcing her attention back down to the papers in her hands. “He has to be alright.” 

“He’s tough,” Gil forced out. 

_“You know, you never did tell my how you found that string of women who all fit your taste. I mean, it would’ve been hard to just find a new girl, several days in a row, on the street who caught your eye-- even harder to kidnap them under the radar. So, how’d you do it?”_

Their eyes landed back on the screen, watching. Waiting. Maybe this could be something helpful. Maybe this could lead them too Bright? 

_“And why should I tell you?”_

_“A dying man’s last wish?”_

Gil’s breath caught on the words. Malcolm was accepting death. Malcolm didn’t think they were going to save him in time. The kid was accepting his fate-- he’d given up. Gil wanted to cry-- 

“Tinder?” JT’s voice forced Gil’s attention back into onto the real world. Away from the ache of Malcolm rolling over and taking death. 

“I could never get behind dating sites,” Dani’s face scrunched up, “gave me vibes. Guess I was right. That’s disgusting…” 

_“Guess what time it is, Whitly?”_

The team froze at the MW Slasher’s sing-song voice out of frame. Malcolm’s body tensed and Gil winced back because that wasn’t a good sign. It wasn’t time for anything good, apparently. 

Gil watched as Malcolm pushed back against the back of the chair as the killer finally joined him on screen again. 

Beside him, Dani gasped, and it was only then that Gil caught sight of what the MW Slasher was holding. It was the stamp. The MW branding stamp that had marked each of his victims. Burning red. 

That fucker was going to brand Malcolm. 

Malcolm was pleading; begging for Donovan to not do it. Gil was holding his breath. He couldn’t breathe if he tried. He knew it was coming-- knew there was no avoiding it, but it didn’t stop the ache he felt was Malcolm’s screams of pain filled the room. 

You could almost hear the way Malcolm’s skin sizzled when the iron touched the underside of his wrist, just over the joint. Like the women currently in Edrisa’s morgue. Gil wouldn’t wish what was happening to Malcolm onto his worst enemy, but he’d sure like to hold the MW Slasher down and return the favor. 

When Gil looked around at his team, anything to have attention anywhere but Malcolm’s pained face as the kid’s desperate cries rang on repeat in his head. 

He noticed tears streaming down Dani’s cheeks. Gil was sure his own eyes were watery as well, almost like he was feeling the pain Malcolm was in just from his voice. She was unable to look at the screen, and her hands twitched to cover her ears. 

JT was glaring hard at the Killer, swallowing repeatedly. He was trying to contain himself. He looked as if he wanted to punch the screen, deliver a right-hook to the MW Slasher’s face as if it would deliver damage to the person harming Bright. 

Malcolm folded over himself as he finally passed out, the silence music to Gil ears that the kid wasn’t suffering through it anymore. That he’d been pushed passed his body’s threshold and finally shut down. He’d rather Malcolm unconscious than suffering through it. 

He was alive. 

He was alive, but unconscious. Gil could faintly see Malcolm’s pained shallow breaths. The movements just enough to remind Gil Malcolm was still breathing, that the MW Slasher hadn’t won yet, even if it felt like he had. 

Gil had never wanted to shoot anyone as much as he wanted to shoot the MW Slasher. That man would pay for laying his hands on Malcolm Bright. He’d pay for branding Malcolm’s skin. Gil didn’t take kindly to people targeting his team-- his family. 

Gil watched, hand covering his mouth as his other hand wrapped around his torso, as the killer moved off screen, only to return a second later with a sickly-sweet smile Gil tensed to beat off his face. 

_“I hope you liked the show, Lieutenant and team. It’ll be more fun to kill him when he’s awake and begging for his life again, so you enjoy these last few hours with him still alive, alright?”_

“Oh, he’s dead,” JT growled. “That dude is _dead_ \--” 

“He’s gonna wish he were dead when I get my hands on him,” Dani muttered darkly, a look in her eyes that frightened Gil slightly. That same look Jackie had been able to shoot in his direction and have him cowering. The Bronx coming out in her. 

Dani’s eyes were red, as she wiped furiously at the tear tracks on her cheeks. “He messed with the wrong team. Bright’s one of us, and that bastard’s going to pay for even touching him.” 

“We don’t know where he is,” Gil whispered to them. A reminder. The voice of reason. 

He liked the threats. They were music to his ear, and he’d gladly turn a blind eye if Dani and JT wanted to rough the killer up before they bring him in-- or, hell, kill him for all Gil cared. Everything sounded good for the man who’d tortured their guy, but the threats meant nothing if they couldn’t find the killer in the first place. 

If Bright hadn’t been able to find the MW Slasher, how did they expect to find him? Bright had so quickly become a vital part of the team-- they relied on him. What hope did they have without Bright’s assistance? Gil hated to admit it, but they needed Malcolm. They desperately needed him. 

They needed Malcolm to solve his own kidnapping, what a joke that was. 

Gil sunk into his chair, dropping his head between his knees where he dug his palms into his eyes again. It wasn’t like Bright even could solve his own kidnapping-- 

Gil’s head jerked up, eyebrows furrowing in genuine disbelief, “holy shit.” 

“What?” JT’s irritation jumped to Gil, where it faded off to confusion. 

“Gil?” Dani questioned, looking just as confused. 

“Dammit,” Gil gave an exasperated laugh that probably made him sound like he’d gone off the deep end-- at least if the looks Dani and JT exchanged before settling their attention on him were anything to go by. It wasn’t funny, but the absurdity of it certainly was. 

That kid was going to be the death of him. Malcolm Bright was a genius, and Gil had never been happier to say it. 

Gil looked between his team, JT’s furrowed eyebrows and Dani’s narrowed eyes. Their attention locked on him. Gil sucked in a breath before returning their stare with his own of utter seriousness, just so they wouldn’t think he was playing with them, “Bright’s been feeding us information this whole time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another quick question! I'm getting to the end of this fic (almost done for the most part), so do you guys have any unrelated to this fic prompt suggestions I can focus on? I love writing these characters, but I'm in a slump of creativity :( If you do, drop them below, and I'll see what I can do! 
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are all greatly appreciated! I love seeing them, and you're all so kind! Thanks for taking the time to read! Hopefully you liked this chapter! <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter remaining! But, I'm thinking about a bonus chapter/ epilogue of some sort somewhere down the line. No promises, just something I've been playing around with.
> 
> Anyways! Please enjoy!

_“Bright’s been feeding us information this whole time.”_

Gil took a second to let that sink in. How stupid that would sound to anyone who hadn’t met Malcolm Bright. 

“Are you serious?” Dani narrowed her eyes, and Gil couldn’t even pinpoint what emotions were crossing her face. He could definitely see a surprised hope lighting up her eyes. 

JT looked appalled, but also impressed. He didn’t even question it-- which, honestly, they should really stop questioning Bright when it came to cases. The kid hadn’t been wrong once—not since he’d joined Gil’s team at least. 

No one else would believe him that their kidnapped and tortured profiler had not only continued profiling when literally facing death, but he’d also been cleverly feeding them information about his whereabouts without raising any suspicion with his captor. 

Malcolm was laying down breadcrumbs, and Gil had just stumbled upon the trail. 

Gil thought back to Malcolm’s oddness of his conversation topics with the MW Slasher, which he’d thought was simply the kid’s concussion taking over-- but he could see it wasn’t now. 

The conversation jumps were just too specific for that. Directed just perfectly to what Malcolm wanted them to look into. Malcolm had been leading Donovan along, getting the answers he was seeking without raising any suspicion. Feeding everything back through the live stream. 

The furnace. Old, smoky. If it had been on recently, there would still be smoke clearing out of the chimney. 

The house he was in was also old. Pre-eighteenth century, which was fairly unique in New York. Buildings that old were scarce, so it was a pretty vital clue. A few quick searches online will drop their location down to, maybe ten buildings. 

And lastly, the Tinder profiles. Meet and hook ups were usually planned through the app. They hadn’t even thought to look through apps. Each of the seven girls had the Tinder app, but all seven had been logged out of the app upon the bodies being dumped. 

IT had gone through all the victim’s phones. Anything that was of any importance would’ve been documented-- but no one ever thought about checking Tinder. The link was far too general for anything-- more than half the population had Tinder. 

So, they’d not really taken into account how all seven girls had the Tinder app installed on their devices, but were all logged out. Their accounts hidden from view. 

The MW Slasher had logged them all out, as he’d wiped away his own finger prints on their devices. He was covering his bases-- but the one he’d missed entirely was how amazingly clever Malcolm Bright was. 

He’d not taken that into account when he’d swiped the profiler off the street, and now that was going to be his down fall. It was what was going to take that asshole down. 

A general rule of thumb Gil had learned in all his years dealing with all four Whitly’s was to never underestimate a Whitly. It would only screw you over in the end. 

Gil let a small smile settle onto his lips at the thought. Of the thought of that kid being so… Malcolm. He was so unbelievably Malcolm Bright; it wasn’t even funny. 

Even with his brain rattled around in his head from a nasty concussion, Malcolm was laying out clues for the team to find. He was still working the case, still building his profile, still working to put his captor behind bars. 

Malcolm had been leading them along from the moment he’d heard they could hear him. 

The clever little bastard who Gil couldn’t wait to wrap his arms around and never let go again. 

Gil didn’t let the thought linger, that longing to hold the kid in his arms again, instead he turned to his team, eyes narrowed in an authoritativeness manner which really wasn’t needed with Dani and JT. 

They’d jump through any hoop Gil laid out. They were some of the good ones, and he was lucky to have them on his team. 

“Dani, I want you on the victim’s Tinder profiles. We need locations, anywhere they would’ve met our killer. Check their recent outgoing messages around the day they disappeared. Compare them all. Where did all seven victims go before their death? He’d need to meet his victims somewhere close by to where he killed them, to be able to snatch them without causing a stir. I don’t care if you have to get IT to hack into those account, I want that information.” 

“On it,” Dani gave a determined nod, leaving out the door to get the cellphones the victims had all been found with from evidence. There hadn’t been fingerprints on those either, so the phones had appeared virtually useless up until this point. 

They were no longer useless-- now they held vital information. Locations. Meeting spots. Donovan Michael’s Tinder profile. All this new information Malcolm had wrung out from the MW Slasher might just be what saves his life. 

“JT, I need you on finding this building Bright’s being held at. It’s old, pre-eighteenth century. There’re few that old left in New York. Look for ones sold in the last decade, look for Donovan Michaels’ name, but don’t expect it, got it?” 

“Got it, Boss.” 

JT left the room with the laptop he’d been using tucked under his arm, eyes filled with an intensity Gil rarely saw. 

It made Gil’s heart warm up at the sight of his detectives so invested in finding Malcolm. He’d always loved the kid, but he knew Bright had quirks others found hard to accept. The intense interest in murder happened to be one of them. 

Gil knew for a fact the FBI would certainly not be putting in this effort to get him back. He wouldn’t even be surprised if they’d written it off as a casualty. Malcolm had mentioned multiple times he didn’t think his team liked him, and it broke Gil’s spirit that even to this day, Malcolm was always boxed in by who his father was. 

Gil forced his attention away from the doorway and his straying thoughts, attention flicking back onto the screen. 

Malcolm hadn’t moved, still slumped over against his restraints. Gil’s heart broke at the sight, but he was holding on to the hope that they’d get to Malcolm before Donovan could finish the job. 

Gil stood himself up, making his way to the office phone where he sent a very important call off to SWAT. He needed them to be ready to leave as soon as they had their leads. 

Time wasted at this point, was just hours of Malcolm’s life being grinded away. 

Malcolm Bright wasn’t going to be dying. 

Not on his watch.

* * *

Edward Mooney House. 

Built between the years 1785 and 1789. 

That’s where Donovan Michaels was holding their boy hostage. 

JT had worked his way through an extensive internet search, which lead to exactly five buildings pre-dating the eighteenth century. They’d dropped two of those buildings which didn’t quite fall under the criteria Bright had laid out for them. 

Which left three remaining buildings. 

Dani had spent a little under an hour with IT, the whole department working through the Tinder profiles under Dani’s watchful eye. Gil wasn’t sure he’d ever seen the whole department focusing on one case, but then again, he didn’t want to go against Dani right now either. 

She was a force to be reckoned with. 

Gil had inwardly cursed himself for not insisting this be done before, but no one would’ve thought to link the Tinder accounts to anything. Apps that have been logged out of barely get opened. IT searches through things that are unlocked and easy to access. 

Dani had reported back with one single location that Donovan had sent each of them only ten hours before the bodies were called in. A bar just down the street from the Edward Mooney House, which happened to be their main location of interest. 

The small bar was shady, snuggled between two restaurants. Gil had driven passed said bar before, but never stopped in. It wasn’t the kind of place he thought should really be open, and he was sure, as a cop, he wouldn’t be very well liked there. 

Everything they had pointed back to the Edward Mooney House-- including the newest owner of said building, which had been bought back in the early 2010’s by one: _Don Miller_ , who’d also, conveniently, been the one chatting the women up on Tinder. 

There wasn’t a doubt in Gil’s mind that Malcolm was being held in the basement of that house. That Malcolm had been just a half-an-hour away from the precinct and they hadn’t known. 

JT drove to the house, knuckles turning white as he gripped the steering wheel. Dani was in the backseat, staring absently out the window as they drove, and Gil was sitting shotgun, knee bouncing anxiously. 

Gil would’ve insisted he drive, had he not been shaking to the point it could give Malcolm’s hand tremor a run for its money. Dani had forbidden they take the LeMans. And Gil really couldn’t argue. 

He had Edrisa back in the office watching Malcolm-- keeping an eye on him until they can get to him. She’d been hesitant to do it, to see him like that again, but she’d agreed in the end. Anything to help Malcolm, even if it meant a bit of suffering on her part. 

Gil was proud of Edrisa. She’d been strong through this whole case, considering the soft spot and adoration she had for Bright. He’d never seen his ME swoon quite so hard for anyone before, but he knew she’d do anything for him, even after knowing him for such a short amount of time. 

Gil felt bad about it though, but they needed someone keeping an eye on their hostage in case anything went sideways. 

Gil only prayed Malcolm remained unconscious until they at least arrived on scene. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that Donovan Michaels was rearing to run the knife across their profiler’s neck and finish him off. 

Gil grit his teeth at the thought. 

He’d tried to get Dani or JT to stay on the screen, but then they’d countered that onto him, and why he wasn’t staying-- none of them were going to sit back and watch while they were so close to getting Bright back. 

There were two SWAT vans following behind JT’s car, and a bus behind that. None had lights, or sirens on, since they wanted an element of surprise. They didn’t want Donovan to hear them and go down to kill Malcolm off before the cops could get to him. 

Dani was wearing an earpiece that patched through to Edrisa back at the station, but she hadn’t said anything alarming yet. So they were still good for now. 

The red brick building came into view shortly thereafter and the trail of cars slowed to a stop. Gil was the first out of the vehicle, voice low as he ordered SWAT around. Half the team to the backdoor with JT, and half staying with him and Dani. 

From there, SWAT would make a sweep of the three main floors, and the attic, while Gil and his team would take the basement, where he knew Malcolm most likely was. 

The concrete of the surroundings was almost a dead giveaway that Malcolm was hidden away down there, and, well, it was always the basement. Less of a chance for sound to escape and easier to keep someone hidden. 

They couldn’t see any movement from the windows, but Edrisa hadn’t reported anyone moving around in the basement. So far so good. 

Gil gave the gesture for JT to lead the other team around to the backdoor, before he was gesturing the remainders to follow him up to the front door silently. Gil gave a second gesture, and then one of the SWAT guys was kicking the door in. 

The door busted open with a crash, and a similar crash echoed from the back, blocking off any escape, unless Donovan wanted to jump out a window. 

Gil led Dani through the house as SWAT branched off to do a sweep of the house. 

Gil found the living room, set up with monitors and a desktop computer running that oh-so familiar live stream they’d been watching for over twelve hours. 

Gil eyed Malcolm’s hunched form again, chewing his lip anxiously. 

This was the place. Bright had been right about it all. 

They were so close to getting him. 

“NYPD, put your hands up!” Gil heard, and he drew in a breath as he and Dani rushed towards JT’s voice. A shot rang out before they arrived on the second floor up, and they turned the corner just in time to see Donovan Michaels crumpling to the floor in front of JT. 

JT had a smug look on his face as he watched the killer bleed, before he was dropping on his knees over Donovan’s body and forcing his hands behind his back. 

“You good, JT?” 

“Yeah,” JT grunted, knee pressing into the base of the back of Donovan’s neck to keep him down as he cuffed him. The killer withered around in pain, but Gil felt no sympathy for him. “I’ve got’em. Find Bright.” 

Gil gestured SWAT up the rest of the stairs to clear the third floor, as well as the attic, hand reaching out to stop the last man, stopping him by the arm, “call a second bus for the killer, the victim’s our first priority, so he gets the one waiting.” 

“Will do, Lieutenant,” the man gave a nod, radioing in on his headset before he was following his team up the stairs to complete his task. 

Gil turned on his heels, moving through the house swiftly, but cautiously. Donovan might not have been alone on this; they couldn’t know for sure without the cautious sweep of the residence. 

Dani stuck close, following behind him. 

Gil listened for the ‘clears’ on every floor, before shouting his own ‘clear’ in reply after making sure his floor had no one else on the wrong side of the law either. It was a relief that Donovan was working alone, less people to get through before reaching Bright. 

With all that said and done, the only remaining place left to check was the basement. Gil was almost certain Bright was the only one down there. Donovan had been keeping him isolated, waiting and watching from upstairs as Malcolm slowly lost his sanity. 

Man, Gil wanted to punch the asshole in the face. 

Dani had been the one to find the basement door, pressing her ear against it before cautiously testing the handle. 

It didn’t budge. 

Gil had no time for that, brushing her aside and kicking in the lock. The door flung open on the third kick, and an alarm blared as they rushed down the stairs. 

He chanced a glance at the keypad blaring the loud noise on his way down-- but it was nothing more than a security keypad that signaled when the door was open without the key-pin being entered. 

Malcolm was in the same position as he’d been since being burned, head lulled and still very much unconscious. Gil moved to his kid quickly, taking a knee in front of him as he patted Malcolm’s cheek, squeezing his knee to try and wake him. 

“Kid, hey,” Gil cupped the kid’s cheeks, supporting his sagging head. “Malcolm. You need to wake up, c’mon, Kid. Open your goddamn eyes. We didn’t work this damn hard to find you, to lose you now.” 

Dani was working on cutting the ropes that were cutting off Malcolm’s circulation, lip pinched between her teeth as she sliced through the restraints with a pocket knife she always carried on her person. 

Gil didn’t like how little colour returned to his skin as the ropes released him, but Dani was quick to start moving his fingers to force the circulation. It wouldn’t help a lot, but at this point, anything could be that tipping point in the grand scale of whether or not Malcolm kept his hands and feet coming out of this. 

“We need EMT’s down here ASAP!” Gil called up the stairs without moving away from Malcolm. Without letting the kid go. 

Without the restraints, Malcolm’s torso lulled down onto him. Gil wrapped around Malcolm, hugging the kid loosely and letting a small breath of relief out. He could feel Malcolm’s shallow breaths on his neck, where the kid’s head had fallen onto his shoulder. 

There was no way he was going to be laying Malcolm down on the blood-stained floor, but he also didn’t want to be moving Malcolm without the EMT’s who were sure taking their sweet time, considering they were only waiting for the okay to come in. 

Dani was staring down at the burn on Malcolm’s wrist, fingers still moving subconsciously to flex Malcolm’s fingers to try and restore his circulation. “Why would he do this to him?” 

Gil didn’t have an answer. It was the same reason why The Surgeon took so many lives. Why the Junkyard killer was murdering people. 

“I’m not sure,” he breathed out slowly, letting himself relish on the fact Malcolm was still had body heat and Gil could feel the kid’s unsteady breath against him. “Some people are just bad seeds.” 

Dani gave a shallow nod, grip tightening on Malcolm’s hand as she momentarily forgot she was massaging his hands. She stared down at his hand, like her brain had frozen for a moment before pulling away and moving to his ankles, cutting away those ropes too before stripping his shoes and socks off and carefully bending his feet and toes to force more circulation. 

When EMT’s finally stumbled their way down the stairs, they were quick to get Malcolm on a stretcher, putting him in a neck brace as a precaution with the head injury, before wrapping his burn in sterile bandages. 

The wound was already cooled; the three hours since he’d been burned would’ve left ample time for the burn to cool down. It would’ve been agony, Gil assumes, so he counts it as a blessing that Malcolm was still unconscious-- a blessing in disguise, perhaps. 

Gil followed right behind as the EMT’s took Malcolm up the stairs, then continued out to the ambulance waiting. Dani watched them with a frown, before she turned her attention onto Gil, swallowing heavily before speaking, “you going with him? He’d want you there.” 

Gil forced a nod, looking back up the stairs, knowing he was the boss here and this was his case. He should be finishing it up. Arresting Donovan for kidnapping, attempted murder and multiple cases of actual murder, but he couldn’t in his right mind leave Malcolm. 

He couldn’t force himself away from the kid-- not when he’d just been extracted from a hostage situation. When he’d been tortured and played around with for almost forty-eight hours. 

He couldn’t do it-- 

“Go,” Dani pushed him towards the doors, where the EMT’s were loading Malcolm up, “JT and I’ve got it from here. The hard part’s over, and we’ve got Bright back. You… you stay with our boy. Text me which hospital they take him too, and we’ll be there as soon as we can, alright?” 

“Right,” Gil gave her a tiny nod, taking a step towards the door, lingering for a second, “thanks, Dani…” 

Dani bowed her head dismissively before giving him a small smile that almost made him feel okay. It was almost normal, even if Gil couldn’t get how bad of shape Malcolm was in out of his head, “now go.” 

He followed orders this time, leaving out the door and trusting the rest of this case in the capable hands of his detectives. God, Gil had the best team. 

Gil clambered into the back of the ambulance as a second pulled up behind the row of police cars and SWAT vans. He grit his teeth at the thought of Donovan getting medical treatment, but knew it was the moral thing to do. 

They could get in serious trouble for withholding that basic human right. 

Gil settled himself beside Malcolm, taking his spare hand, the one not wrapped in bandages and sterile cotton to keep the burn clean into his own hands, pressing his thumbs into the fleshy parts of his palm and moving his fingers to hopefully aid the circulation some more. 

There were two EMT’s in the back, and one up front driving. 

One of the ones in the back, across from Gil, was hooking Malcolm up to an IV drip to administer fluids. He was beyond dehydrated at this point, and that wasn’t even unusual for Malcolm. More so since Malcolm hadn’t even had seltzer water in the past two days. 

The second was pulling Malcolm’s eyes open and shining a penlight into his pupils to get a glimpse at just how bad the concussion was. 

Gil was guessing very bad, considering they hadn’t been able to rouse Malcolm yet. 

The look on the EMT’s face as he assessed Malcolm’s head trauma wasn’t raising his hope up very much. Gil swallowed down the grief at Malcolm might be worse than they’d originally thought. 

The EMT shot Gil a small smile when he noticed his stare, before he was cutting Malcolm’s shirt open-- Gil drew in a sharp breath at the angry burns on his kid’s chest. 

He hadn’t even thought about that. Malcolm must have been in complete agony the whole time he’d been kidnapped. Those were at least second-degree coffee burns. Gil was sure the raw mark on his wrist was another story entirely-- at least a third degree, maybe even fourth. 

“What hospital are we going to?” Gil questioned easily, hoping his voice held some authority. He couldn’t drag his eyes away from Malcolm’s pale complexion. 

The EMT rattles off the hospital, but Gil could hardly concentrate, despite the fact he’d asked. It’s the same one Malcolm had been taken too after being bitten by the black mamba, he was sure. 

He’d phone in to have Donovan transported to the hospital nearest to Claremont, just since they were best equipped for dealing with killers and working around handcuffs and body straps-- and since Gil didn’t want the bastard who’d done this to Malcolm to even be treated in the same hospital. 

“We have a burn unit standing by,” the EMT assessing Malcolm’s concussion informed, “they’ll assess his burns better than we can, and decide whether be needs to be transported to a burn unit clinic or not. I’m a bit more worried about the concussion…” 

Gil forced out a breath. “Alright.” 

There wasn’t much he could say. He wanted to lose his mind, and go off on anyone in the vicinity, but these people hadn’t done anything. They were working to save Malcolm, and Gil wasn’t one for taking his frustration out on others. 

He was a Lieutenant, after all. He couldn’t go haywire after every bad thing to happen, and he also wouldn’t blame anyone who played no part in it. There was a line he never wanted to cross, in his role as the boss, and that was to never let himself wrongfully take frustrations out on the nearest person. 

Besides, the one he really wanted to lay into was in an ambulance with a police escort, also on his way to a hospital. Gil didn’t know his status, whether he was alive, or the shot was fatal. 

Gil would completely sign off on JT’s shot being self-defense, even if it wasn’t. Maybe his guy had gotten ahead of himself and shot him-- Gil probably would’ve too. Had he been the first to look Bright’s captor in the eyes, he probably would’ve aimed for something vital. 

Was it bad Gil hoped Donovan dies? 

“What’s the ETA?” Gil heard himself asking without even remembering asking. 

“Twenty minutes,” the driver called. “They’re awaiting our arrival. Trauma center is on standby, as is our burn unit.” 

“Good,” Gil sighed, watching Malcolm’s lax face for any movements at all—he'd even settle for a pained grimace at this point. He was blissfully unresponsive though. “He’s with the police, so make sure he gets the best care possible.” 

“Of course, Lieutenant,” the EMT now dressing Malcolm’s rope burn injuries and disinfecting the deep nail marks on his forearm promised. 

When they arrived at the hospital, Malcolm was taken straight to the Intensive Care Unit, where Gil couldn’t follow. He swallowed, shooting Dani a text of where they were, to which she responded that they’d be there in the next couple hours. 

He knew Dani would be working on getting Donovan sent anywhere else now that she knew where Bright was. No one on the team wanted that guy anywhere near Malcolm. 

Gil fiddled with his phone for another second before sighing and finally pressing call on Jessica’s contact. He’d held off on calling her to report that Malcolm had gone missing, if only to save themselves from having to console the Whitly girls. 

Having to deal with the Whitly girls trying to aid in the investigation. And their devious nature of trying to help in the only ways they knew-- Gil was sure he’d be seeing this case all over the news had he informed them earlier in the case. 

It was better for everyone that they remained blissfully unaware, even if it morally wasn’t what he was supposed to do. 

They’d needed to focus on finding Malcolm first, and that would’ve been hard with Ainsley and Jessica Whitly helicoptering around them, trying to help and be a part of rescuing Malcolm. 

It was understandable, but sometimes it was more of a nuisance than it was an aid. 

Gil was more than happy to take Jessica Whitly’s fury now that Malcolm was no longer in a serial killer’s hands. He’d be in the dog house for a while, but Malcolm was rescued, and that’s all that mattered. 

This wouldn’t be a very fun phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a bit of research about old buildings in New York, and the Edward Mooney house is the one I liked the most. This is all fiction, and the building probably won't be sold now that it's a tourist attraction and a New York City landmark (and on the National Register of Historic Places). It just fit what I was going for, so bear with me!
> 
> Also, once again with the disclaimer that I'm no medic, and Google is definitely not a good doctor. Apologies if things are wrong!
> 
> Anyways, as always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated. I always look forward to seeing what you guys think of the work and how it's coming along! Hopefully I'll see you back for the last(?) chapter! Thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with what we've all been waiting for! I tried to clear everything up, but excuse any plot holes if you find them. This chapter's got a bit of everyone's POV because I can. And this definitely isn't over 12.6K words of hurt/comfort and family also because I can (sorry not sorry).
> 
> Anyways! Please enjoy, as per usual :D

Malcolm was in the ICU for a little over eleven hours. 

Quite possibly the longest eleven hours of Gil’s life. 

As Malcolm’s superior officer, and not a blood relation, the hospital refused to tell him anything. He’d need to wait for Jessica or Ainsley to vouch for him, so he could hear the damage. He knew basics, from the ambulance ride over, but it was bare minimum compared to what he’d seen. 

Malcolm looked worse for the ware, pale and sickly. The worst he’d ever seen the kid, really, and he’d ridden in the ambulance with him when he’d been bitten by the snake. 

Now that he thinks about it, Gil is getting real tired of riding passenger in ambulances with his profiler. Malcolm was a danger magnet, apparently. Always caught up in one problem or another, and he was rarely let off the hook unscathed. 

JT and Dani had arrived during that third hour of Gil sitting alone in the waiting room, worried out of his mind. It hadn’t looked very good as they’d taken Malcolm away, shouting medical jargon he didn’t understand as they pushed him away behind doors Gil was no longer able to follow through. 

His detectives had settled down on either side of him, Dani’s head settling against his arm while JT slumped beside him, elbows on his knees and forehead pressed on his forearms. 

It had been a long nineteen hours since either had allowed themselves to shut their eyes for more than a couple minutes, and Gil was no better off than they were. He was just hit was an overprotective parental adrenaline that he felt with all his subordinates-- but Malcolm definitely the most considering all the years he’d been looking out for the kid. 

Still, he didn’t like seeing them all worn down, a flurry of worry in his chest as he caught their drooping eyelids and slouched frames. 

He’d told them they were free to go home, and get some rest, even though he wasn’t planning on leaving the hospital without seeing for himself that Malcolm was alright. 

Dani had shot him a glare, and JT had openly laughed at the aspect of leaving without making sure Bright was alright, and Gil’s heart swelled fondly. 

This was what his kid needed; people in his corner. Malcolm had spent far too much time alone, he needed friends and a team who wouldn’t turn their backs on him when things went sideways because it was easier. 

Jessica had arrived shortly after his team in a hurricane of concerned parent, marching passed Gil (shooting him a nasty glare as she went) and demanding to know Malcolm’s current state. 

Ainsley had followed behind her mother, looking terrified for Malcolm’s sake. She was right up at the counter demanding information with just as much ascendancy as her mother, and for a second, Gil wasn’t sure he could decipher between the two. 

Dani and JT had exchanged odd looks before their attention settled on him, and he moved to greet the girls. Dani and JT had really only met the Whitly women in passing, so it must’ve been weird to suddenly be getting the who Whitly experience-- minus the serial killer one. 

At least Ainsley wasn’t angry at him, falling into his chest and hugging him tightly when he’d stood to greet them and see what the nurse had to say about Malcolm. Jessica had scrunched her nose up, but Ainsley had verified that Gil was just as close as blood relation. 

They didn’t have any updates on Malcolm; besides the fact he was stable. 

The nurse had frowned as she told them the same rehearsed spiel about how they’d be informed of any changes when they occurred, or when Malcolm was moved into recovery. 

It was bullshit, but there wasn’t a whole lot they could do. If Jessica Whitly hadn’t gotten her way with her power and influence, what chance did they have now, other than to wait it out? 

The five of them had settled into the chairs, ready for the wait. 

And they did wait. 

Gil watched as his team passed out one by one-- JT across three chairs, and Dani curled up into one chair. Ainsley had crashed too, curled up in her chair, but with her head in Jessica’s lap. Her mother’s coat laid over her and Jessica’s fingers carded through her hair as she slept-- a sight Gil wasn’t unfamiliar with seeing. 

He’d known Ainsley since she was five-years-old, and they were no stranger to waiting rooms. 

He was so damn tired, but there was no way he could sleep even if he tried. 

It was late, or very early in the morning. He’d had just ten hours of sleep in the last week, and it was finally starting to weigh him down. He didn’t know how his kid did this-- it was almost torture. 

But Malcolm was much more important than a couple hours of sleep. 

The silence was heavy, and Gil could still see Jessica stewing where she was sitting. 

He knew she was pretty mad to be the last to know about her son going missing. It had to be a punch to the gut to find out he’d been gone, only after he’d been rescued. Gil himself would’ve been livid in her position, but he’d needed to sort priorities, and finding Malcolm had been the number one. 

He still didn’t regret his decision in the slightest. 

“It was bad, Jess.” Gil had whispered after a glance around to make sure everyone was asleep. 

The woman had been staring at the wall, fingers trailing through Ainsley’s hair as if looking for support that at least one of her children was fine. Jessica’s worried eyes fell onto him, and she didn’t even have the strength to look angry anymore. Just sad, and betrayed. 

He didn’t know if he should be relieved, or worried, “he’s tough though. Malcolm Bright is a tough little cookie. He’ll be alright.” 

“How can you be so sure?” Jessica’s voice was small, fingers tucking Ainsley’s hair behind her ear as she slept, “he was tortured, Gil. _Tortured._ I thought… I thought Martin had broken my son-- I thought the things Martin did had been the worst Malcolm would endure-- but this, this is the icing on the cake, isn’t it?” 

Gil swallowed, running a tired hand down his face. 

“When does it end?” Her voice was low, hysteric, “when does he get a break? This… this murder was after him for Martin’s deeds. Malcolm was an innocent party, sucked under his father’s undercurrents. He’s _drowning_ , Gil.” 

“Malcolm’s tough,” is all he replied with. 

He couldn’t deny that Malcolm wasn’t suffering. Malcolm had been in a near constant state of drowning since Martin’s arrest. He’d just gotten good at hiding it; at building up walls to protect himself. 

“His father’s a murder,” Jessica reminded, eyebrows furrowed angrily, “he _had_ to be tough. He had to be tough to survive, but that’s not fair. It’ll never be fair; Malcolm will never escape his father... No one should ever need to be that strong to simply survive day to day life, Gil.” 

“You’re right,” Gil agreed, reaching up to rub tiredly at his eyes. “He shouldn’t. It’s not fair-- but we can’t change it, Jess.” 

Jessica heaved a heavy sigh, ducking her eyes away. 

Gil had explained to her why he hadn’t called, led her away from the group to tell her. Continuing on through the glares she shot and attempts to shame him. It wasn’t going to work, Gil knew the Whitly’s far too well for Jessica’s fury over the matter to really bother him. 

And underneath all the betrayal and anger of not being informed, he knew she understood his reasoning. He knew she was thankful Malcolm was home-- alive. 

The need of verification before sending them into a tizzy. The live stream video and how he’d never want them to ever see Malcolm in such a state-- how Malcolm would never want his mother or sister to see him such a state. The threat of the killer looming over them, all three Whitly’s. The things he’d said about Ainsley and how she’d been the original target. 

He’d come clean about it all, and she seemed to accept that he’d done it for everyone’s best interest. That didn’t mean she wasn’t still furious to not know Malcolm had been missing for forty-eight hours, but she understood. 

Malcolm was moved into recovery around that eleven-hour mark. One of the trauma doctors who’d been working on him had come out and gestured Gil and Jessica over, since they were the only two awake. It was surprisingly slow in the waiting room. 

Malcolm wasn’t in the clear-- would have weeks in the hospital between the nasty concussion and the skin graft they were going to perform on his wrist, but he’d survive. 

His circulation was pretty bad still too, but he’d get to keep his hands and feet, which was probably the best news they could’ve received. The doctor had been pleased to report that Malcolm’s hands were slowly starting to regain their natural colour, and fade away from the blue tint. 

All in all, Malcolm was considerably lucky. 

He had a series of hairline fractures on the back of his skull where he’d taken the hit, but the CT scan they’d done had shown little brain swelling, and no bleeds. He’d have one hell of a headache for a few weeks, and would be very sensitive to lights and sounds, but it could be far worse than it was. 

Gil had been right about the burns, the coffee marks were all bordering between first and second-degree burns, his chest had been blistered and angry, but it also could’ve been worse. 

The only place he’d need the skin graft was his wrist, which they’d perform after Malcolm had woken up and was conscious for a while. 

A burn unit specialist would be coming around to talk more details on the burns, but that would wait until Malcolm was conscious enough to be a part of the conversation. It was his body after all. 

Gil wasn’t even entirely sure Malcolm would take the surgery-- he tended to want to stew in his trauma and have the reminder of things to keep him going. Plus, he wasn’t one for willingly admitting himself to being put under general anesthetic. 

His wrist was a very bad third degree burn that was leaning towards a fourth. 

The iron had burned through his skin, tissue and muscle, and just a second longer would’ve reached bone. It was messy, and angry, nothing like the girls they’d recovered from various spots around the city. 

The burn Malcolm was sporting was nothing more than revenge. The killer didn’t want it to look pretty, its purpose was to _hurt_ , and nothing more. An ugly reminder on Malcolm’s skin so he’d never forget his heritage, no matter how much he tried. 

Even if they couldn’t make out what the branding was supposed to say, they all knew what it did say. Malcolm knew what it meant, and what the branding was there for. 

It made Gil beyond angry. 

Malcolm’s doctor had told them he was very lucky when it came to how worse things could’ve been. And, yeah, Gil knew. Malcolm could be losing his hands and feet from lack of circulation, his concussion could be so much worse than it was, and the burn could’ve hit bone. 

In a harsh reality, this, what Malcolm had now, was what was considered lucky for him. What a joke. 

The two of them had left JT, Dani and Ainsley sleeping in the waiting room, the staff under strict instruction to leave them be, while they found their way to the recovery room Malcolm had been settled into. 

Jessica gave a gasp beside him, hand reaching up to cover her mouth, but Gil couldn’t help but notice how much better Malcolm was looking with the help he’d received. He’d been cleaned up, stripped from his grungy and torn suit and although he was still bruised and beaten, he was looking more like Malcolm. 

Malcolm’s torso was bare, the blankets settled just above his belly-button. His feet poked out on the other end, raw and discoloured from not only the restraints of the ropes, but also his socks and shoes putting pressure as well. It was just that much more pressure between Malcolm’s suffocating feet and the circulation stuck behind the restraints. 

His chest was covered with a cool compress, hiding the blistered damage and also working on bringing down the swelling. You could still see angry red skin peeking out all around the compress, but the serious damage was hidden, thankfully. 

Gil wondered when they’d wrap the kid’s chest with gauze to keep it clean, and concluded that they’d probably get to that when Malcolm was conscious and could sit up for them. 

His bruising looked a lot worse than it had when they’d found him, blue and black hues dark in contrast to his usually pale skin. They ran to the base of his wrists and feet and up his forearms and lower legs about half-an-inch. 

The roped had cut into his skin, but not much, a thin tear that had run along each of his wrists from his movements in the restraints, but they’d barely bled when Dani had cut the ropes off. 

He was still blissfully asleep, reclined and face relaxed like he knew he was safe again. Gil wouldn’t even be surprised if Malcolm somehow did know he was safe; that his team had found and rescued him. 

Jessica moved into the room, pressing her hand to Malcolm’s forehead before sweeping it back and pushing his hair down. She repeated the action a couple more times, her lip wobbling as she tried to contain her emotions. 

“He looks better,” Gil croaked from the doorway, stepping in to join Jessica by Malcolm’s bedside. He looked so peaceful, which was a change from his usual night terrors. 

Gil was torn between setting his hand on Jessica’s lower back for comfort, and settling his hand over Malcolm’s so the kid would know he was there. 

He kept his hands by his sides, tucked into his pants pockets. 

“He looks like he was hit by a truck.” 

“...can’t argue with that.” 

Jessica fondly rolled her eyes at him, before looking back towards Malcolm, eyes softening. 

Gil pulled a chair towards the edge of the bed for her to sit in, she muttered a soft ‘thank you’ at the gesture before he was grabbing a second for himself and sitting on Malcolm’s other side. 

He picked up Malcolm’s hand, curling and uncurling the man’s fingers as a subconscious movement to keep his circulation flowing as his eyes trained on the white bandage covering his burn mark. 

“Was it… was it bad?” Gil looked up to see Jessica’s eyes focused on Malcolm’s face. She looked away abruptly, gaze falling to the bandage beside Gil’s hand. “The burn, I mean.” 

He cleared his throat. “It’s not… good? Donovan Michaels… he, ah, he marked Malcolm with… with his initials. MW. He didn’t want Malcolm to forget he was a Whitly; that he… that he’s related to Martin.” 

“That is _sick_ ,” Jessica growled. “Truly disgusting. That man is still somehow ruining his son’s life, even after twenty years in prison. Martin Whitly is the scum of the earth.” 

Gil gave her a nod, finger brushing a strip of tape keeping the gauze in place, “Michaels is still in surgery, or, that’s the last I heard, at least. If he survives it, Jess, you can bet we’ll be putting him away for life. He’ll never hurt anyone again, and that’s all thanks to Malcolm.” 

“You’ve said that to me before,” Jessica looked over with a little smile. 

“And I doubt it’ll be the last time either,” Gil allowed a good-humored snort, “Malcolm never ceases to amaze me. He’s a great kid, and that’s all your doing, Jess.” 

“You’ve said that before too.” 

“Probably won’t be the last time I say that either.”

* * *

Dani sat in the chair beside Malcolm’s bed, knees pulled up to her chest with her chin rested on the gap between them. Her hand was settled over top of his, thumb stroking across his knuckles. 

The doctors had estimated anywhere from twelve, to thirty hours before Malcolm would wake. He was being closely monitored, and the doctors had agreed it would be best to let his body decide when to wake up, instead of forcing him awake. 

Everything was basically in Malcolm’s hands. 

Dani knew Malcolm deserved to take as much time as he needed before waking up. If anyone deserved that recuperating time, it was Malcolm Bright. 

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t anxious to see him awake. To look in his eyes and see bright blue instead of terrified pain. To hear him talk, and ramble on about anything that interested him, even when no one else really cared. 

What she wouldn’t give to hear him ramble on about a case he’d studied at Quantico. 

Gil was asleep on a couch off to the side of the room, having refused to leave before Malcolm work up. Jessica had ushered him onto the couch when Dani had commented about how being awake for over nineteen hours wasn’t healthy. 

Gil had shot her a glare, which she hadn’t quite understood until Jessica had taken off in a tornado of worry, ushering her boss to the couch and demanding he sleep, less she have her driver take him home. 

There was no way Gil would be leaving Bright, she knew; just like how Gil had refused to leave her side after her undercover gig at the club went sideways. 

She and JT at least had the excuse that they’d dozed off in the waiting room for a few hours, so he couldn’t even rope them into the need of sleep. 

Jessica and Ainsley were out grabbing food, because Jessica was appalled at what the cafeteria had to offer. Dani had promised it wasn’t worth it, and that she didn’t mind the cafeteria food, but Jessica had been firm that she didn’t want any of them eating anything in the cafeteria. 

She didn’t think an argument with Jessica Whitly was in her best interest with them all being worried about Malcolm, so she’d ducked her head in submission and let Jessica take a food order for her. 

Tally had come in to drag JT away for some rest; he’d put up a resistance, but ultimately followed behind her with a kicked puppy look when she’d shot him a glare. 

Dani had given her a thankful nod from Malcolm’s bedside. 

Tally’s eyes had lingered on Malcolm before she was leading JT out by his hand. 

Dani was on watching duty-- the group had banded together to make sure Malcolm didn’t wake up alone. That someone was there when he awoke, because he deserved as much. He’d been in captivity for the last two days, and the last time he’d been conscious he was still a hostage. 

They didn’t want him to wake up thinking he was still there, and not see a familiar face. 

He’d spent forty-eight hours at the hands of some psycho killer who’d just wanted a revenge kill, even going as far as to murder several young women as bait to lure in his real target. Malcolm had fallen into his trap by working the case. 

The thought made Dani queasy. 

Dani dragged her attention away from the wall, and settled it back on Malcolm’s sleeping face. He was the most relaxed she’d ever seen; features soft and lax, instead of the usual tension that followed Bright like a ghost. 

He looked a thousand times better than when she and Gil had found him in the basement, but she couldn’t not see that vulnerable Bright they’d rescued when looking at him now. 

She still needed to apologize-- to tell him she never meant what she’d said. She’d been irritated at their lack of progress, and had taken it out on him. He’d just been trying to help; she’d realized after finally getting some sleep. 

She needed to ensure him that they were friends-- that she cared for him, and would never not care for him. She’d always be there for him, and she’d always come for him. 

It had broken her heart that he’d thought otherwise. She’d never meant to make him feel like an outsider to the point he thought they wouldn’t search day and night for him. 

That he could even entertain the idea that no one would be looking for him just because of who his father was. That they didn’t care about him, because they did. They were a team now, and that’s not how teams rolled-- at least the teams Dani was a part of. 

He’d been an oddball at first, but Dani had never not trusted him. She knew she trusted him from the moment he’d put himself in danger for her and Carter Burkhead’s wife. They’d both be dead right now if it wasn’t for Malcolm Bright. 

She wasn’t on board with his method of throwing himself in the crossfire, but she trusted him completely. He’d rather take the hit than let anyone else have it, and that was just as admirable as it was stupid. 

And that was saying something. 

Dani’s thumb stilled on his hand, looking at the wound circling his wrist from the ropes. His hands had thankfully returned to their regular pale colour, but his feet were still dusted light blue. 

His ankle restraints had been a tad tighter, but Dani had been promised by Gil that Malcolm would keep all his limbs. She trusted him. And besides, if there was really something to be worried about, Gil would be a lot more stressed out right now than he was. 

Dani shot a look back at her sleeping boss. 

He would not be sleeping if he thought Malcolm might not be okay. Her gaze lingered for a second, before she was looking back towards Malcolm, hand squeezing his ever so slightly. 

Her thoughts still lingered on the gruesome reality. 

That sickening question of if Malcolm would get to keep his hands and feet was not something she ever wanted to think about again. She never wanted any of them in the situation of if they’d get to keep their limbs again. No one. 

She’d never thought hearing something as morbid as that would ever make a rush of relief flow through her. 

Dani’s eyes lowered back to Malcolm’s sleeping face. Much calmer than when he’d fallen asleep at the precinct and taken her out before fully waking up. It was nice to see. 

She hoped he knew he was safe. That he knew he was surrounded by people who, dare she say, loved him? Dani shoved the feeling down, biting her bottom lip as she readjusted her hand to continue stroking her thumb over his knuckles, letting her eyes drift back up to his face. 

His face looked the most normal. The most like Bright. There were fewer bruises and no major damage-- and his complexion was finally starting to return to normal under the hospital staff’s watch, and his dehydration finally starting to wane. 

He was on the road to recovery-- all he needed to do now, was to wake up. 

Dani chewed her bottom lip, adjusting her chin to just watch Bright.

* * *

JT watched from the doorway as Dani sat beside Bright. Gil was still asleep, but JT had convinced Tally to bring him back due to the fact he _couldn’t_ sleep. 

He didn’t want to admit it, but he was sick with worry. 

He’d tried to sleep-- had taken Tally into his arms, despite it being midday and laid in bed with her. For an hour. He could squeeze his eyes shut all he wanted, but he wasn’t going to get a wink of sleep knowing Bright still hadn’t woken up. 

Knowing that Bright was in a hospital, and he was at home trying to sleep. It didn’t fly with him. He couldn’t manage to get his brain to shut off long enough to fall asleep. 

One of his teammates was in the hospital and was still unconscious. 

He’d been busy with Michaels at the scene, but he knew it hadn’t looked good. 

Dani had returned to him with a haunted expression he’d only ever seen cloud Bright’s eyes, and JT was almost thankful he’d taken apprehending the murder over rushing to Bright’s aid with the team. 

He’d seen a lot of shit over the years between his tours with the military and his recent years working with the NYPD, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to see Bright held hostage in person. The depiction on the screen in the Major Crimes Department had been more than enough. 

It had tugged uncomfortably at his heart, and he knew seeing the real thing would’ve been more than he could handle. He was no stranger to gory things, but there was just something different about seeing Bright like that. 

The dude who tended to scream he was ‘fine’ from the rooftops whenever the question was even brought up and who let others worry for him roll off his back with a smile that was too wide to be real. 

JT still had his doubts about Bright sometimes-- who wouldn’t? 

The dude was a strange one, who lost sight of things sometimes. But he’d never really done anything wrong. Maybe he went against code, and definitely against the books, but he was always on the right side of things by the end. 

JT wouldn’t say they were really friends quite yet-- but they were definitely teammates. And JT took care of his teammates. Gil and Dani had let Malcolm in far easier than JT had; and don’t even get him started on whatever it was Edrisa had with the guy. 

That was a can of worms JT wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. 

But he cared. 

He liked Bright. 

Didn’t always agree with the way Bright worked, but he was a good profiler, and he always put his team first. They were similar in that sense, and _God_ , he never wanted too compare himself to Bright again. 

He still couldn’t deny Bright hadn’t weaseled his way into JT’s circle of people he cared for. The weird little murder-obsessed rich dude was now someone JT _almost_ considered as a friend. 

He’d check in on him, after watching the guy be antsy all day. Hand shaking with that tremor Malcolm always waved any and all concern off about. He worried-- maybe not openly, but… he worried. 

Simple texts he’d send off and get a reply almost instantaneously, like Malcolm was starved for interaction. And maybe he was, he’d never seemed very… liked? 

It was almost funny how fast he’d integrated himself into the team. How after just a few cases, no one batted an eyelash at the criminal psychologist profiler who was suddenly working every case with them. 

Tally always teased him about a tiny smile he got whenever Malcolm responded to his texts just as fast as he sent them, which he obviously denied ever smiling at Bright, but secretly knew he did. 

Tally had seemed to like Malcolm too, talked fondly of him when he’d shoot her a smile, or a wave in passing. They hadn’t really met before, but they were familiar with each other. JT talked about Bright at home, and he sometimes let facts about himself and Tally slip at work. 

Malcolm was good at what he did, so JT knew everything he said would automatically be profiled and deconstructed in Malcolm’s head with a fine-tooth comb, so he didn’t share tidbits often. 

The more comfortable he got with Bright though, the more he found himself sharing. He knew Bright absorbed the information like a sponge, and that was almost as nice as it was incredibly creepy. 

JT couldn’t deny Malcolm Bright didn’t have a charming charisma to him-- when he wasn’t chopping people’s hands off and shoulder checking people off buildings at least. 

So, when JT had sighed in bed as he loosened his grip on his wife, Tally had given him a sad look before telling him to shower and get dressed. That she’d take him back to the hospital, where he needed to be until he knew everything was all right. 

Tally had decided to stick around as emotional support, and was currently in the hospital gift shop looking for something to give to Malcolm as a ‘get better soon’ gift from the both of them. 

Malcolm already had a small tabletop of gifts; stuffed bears and flowers. Cards. One single helium balloon that he’d seen Bright’s sister walking around with before Tally had taken him home. 

JT hoped the guy would get one look at the growing pile of stuff and realize that they didn’t hate him. That he was an important part of their team now, and he’d been incredibly missed in those forty-six hours of his captivity. 

They hadn’t said it aloud, but the looks the team had exchanged when they hit walls in the investigation all said the same thing-- they needed their sharp-as-a-whip profiler back. 

JT had never been one for supporting hospitals making money off illness and injury, but he’d gladly let Tally drop thirty bucks on a tiny bear and a generic ‘get well soon’ card, if it meant finally drilling the message that Bright wasn’t the enemy into his dense head. 

And yeah, maybe JT wanted to see the guy smile and laugh at the collection of gifts he’d probably look super awkward accepting. He’d definitely look awkward, and might even be embarrassed to see it, and JT was there for that. 

He wouldn’t be surprised if they got a ‘thank you’ note in the mail when Bright was finally out of the hospital. 

He seemed the type.

* * *

Malcolm’s eyebrows furrowed as he stared around. 

Wherever he was it was white, and blurry. Like a tunnel of brightness that just left whites. Fog clouded the area, thick and hard to see past. There didn’t appear to be walls, just an expanse of white leading off. 

He wasn’t sure where he was, there was options. A small selection-- none seemed promising. 

He was in the white button-up and dark two-piece suit he last remembers wearing, his clothes clean and in one piece. He still had his shoes and socks. It was like he’d just left the precinct for the coffees. Before the MW Slasher had gotten to him. 

He was sat in a chair. 

He wasn’t in any restraints, nor did he feel any pain, or anything. 

He could see the marks on his wrists, and a halfhearted tug of his pant leg showed his ankles had the same marks. Malcolm unbuttoned the first few buttons on his shirt, finding just as he assumed he would: coffee burns. An ugly burn mark lingered on his wrist as well, but that didn’t hurt either, even if it looked like it really should. 

The MW that was supposed to be embedded in his skin was hardly visible under all the damage from the residual heat of the iron stamp. He could still see the sharp lines of the M and the W, but you had to look for them. 

So that had all happened. He’d been kidnapped, and Donovan had done as he’d said he would-- branding him with his father(and his own)’s initials. 

Nothing hurt here, but then again, Malcolm wasn’t feeling a whole lot. It was almost numb, like he wasn’t all there. And really, he wasn’t all there, considering this certainly wasn’t the real world. 

He felt like a ghost of a person. Hazy and barely coherent. 

“Well, well,” Malcolm looked up. He’d been alone for a while. He wasn’t quite sure how long, but it had been a while. Nothing had really changed, and it was hard for him to even focus his mind, but he knew it had been a long time. “ _My boy._ ” 

“Doctor Whitly,” Malcolm greeted with a curt nod. He crossed one ankle over the other, eyes catching on his father. He barely batted an eyelash, because this wasn’t even that weird. Whatever the hell _this_ was. 

He accepted the fact his father was here, but that didn’t mean he didn’t narrow his eyes suspiciously, watching the man’s movements carefully. 

The man was still in his Claremont whites, with his signature cardigan tucked around his body. His wrists were free; hands tucked in his pockets and there was no chain leashing him to the wall. Not that there even was walls. 

“Always so hostile towards me.” 

“Always so unpleasant,” Malcolm returned blandly, “in general.” 

“Now, now,” Martin chided, bouncing on his heels, but not moving an inch towards Malcolm, “that’s no way to speak to your father.” 

Malcolm didn’t reply. Staring off into the abyss of white. His attention was clouded. Slow. He could hardly keep his thoughts straight. Everything muddled together in one giant mess-- 

“That would be the concussion,” Martin informed factually, “quite the hit, my boy. I’m very surprised you’ve survived thus far.” 

“I survived,” Malcolm repeated slowly, like the word left a sour taste on his tongue. He angled his head towards his father, head tilting in interest, “how can you be so sure?” 

For a moment, Malcolm had thought he was dead. He felt no pain. His suit was restored. The fog surrounding him wasn’t clearing. He thought that maybe this was death. 

It was almost peaceful. 

“Well, I’m no expert, but I’m still here, aren’t I? Last I checked, I was still kicking around in Claremont. As much as I’d love to greet my boy in heaven.” 

“Hell,” Malcolm hissed the correction, glaring at his father. “The only place I’d ever see you after death would be hell.” 

“Tomato, to-mah-toe,” Martin shrugged. 

Malcolm shook his head in disbelief at his father’s indifference, but took a second to think through his words anyways-- disregarding the last part entirely, of course. 

“I passed out,” Malcolm decided, bowing his head thoughtfully, “when Donovan burned me. I must’ve passed out from the pain. I’m still there.” 

Malcolm grabbed his wrist, thumb dragging over the wound, but he still felt nothing. The movement brought back an inkling of the pain he’d felt in the moment, struggling to stay conscious only to lose in the end, but nowhere near the amount he knew he should be feeling her a burn quite as serious as this one looked. “We’re in my head. If _I’m_ not dead, and _you’re_ here, we’re in my head.” 

“Yes, we usually are,” Martin gave a nod. “Or, I am, at least. To be quite honest, you don’t spend a lot of time up here, considering how clever you are, my son. You’re really quite reckless. Act first, and think later; it’s a risky game, Malcolm. Sooner or later running into danger head first is going to get you burned--” Martin gestured to Malcolm’s wrist with a sly grin, “no pun intended, my boy.” 

“People suffer when you wait-- people _die_. I can help people, whether I have backup with me or not. If I don’t wait, that can save someone’s life.” Malcolm informed briskly with a roll of his eyes. “Now, how do I leave?” 

“You want to go back there?” Martin’s face twisted in surprise. “You’re at the hands of a serial killer, my boy. He’s going to kill you.” 

“I’m at the hands of a serial killer here too,” Malcolm snapped. “It’s almost funny that you think you’re not as much of a threat to me as he is, Doctor Whitly, because you certainly are.” 

“Hey,” Martin pouted, “I’m unarmed,” he pulled his hands from his pockets, showing empty palms before pushing them back into his trousers, “and I’d never hurt you, my boy.” 

Malcolm glared. 

“Why would you want to go back there anyways, Malcolm? Either way you’ll die. Whether you’re conscious or not, that man is going to kill you. Why be in pain when he does? Stay here with your old man...” 

“How do I leave?” Malcolm asked through gritted teeth. “My team will find me. Gil will come for me.” 

“You still have so much trust in them,” Martin tutted, a flash of irritation clouding his eyes before it was gone in the blink of an eye, “it’s been days, Malcolm. They’re not looking. They’re not your friends-- you don’t have friends. _They’re not coming for you._ ” 

“You’re so sure of that,” Malcolm paused, studying his father. The tint of frustrated red on his cheeks, to the glare he was trying to hide. His tone was hard, annoyed, like he knew something Malcolm didn’t; something he didn’t want Malcolm to know, “they’re already here, aren’t they?” 

“Of course not,” Martin scoffed, “I told you, they’re not coming, Malcolm. They don’t care about you. They haven’t been looking. You think they’ve spent the last forty-six hours--” 

“Forty-six hours,” Malcolm cut his father off, narrowing his eyes. “I wouldn’t be able to know that, Doctor Whitly. Donovan told me nothing about time; left me in complete silence, no mention whatsoever. You have a specific time frame. Forty-six hours. Someone other than Donovan would’ve had to say that for you to know-- you are _my_ subconscious, after all. I might not be awake, but I am listening. I’m hearing everything going on.” 

“Very clever, my boy,” Martin gave a hum that didn’t sound quite as impressed as the words did. “Is it so bad that a father not want his son to take off?” 

“You’re not my father,” Malcolm grit out. “I’ve spent years learning how to tune you out. I have medications to rid me of you, the only reason you’re so vivid right now is because I haven’t had my medications in forty-six hours.” 

“And I detest that,” Martin scowled, “embrace me, Malcolm. We could be the _perfect_ team. Just think about it, we’d be unstoppable! Stop ignoring me.” 

“I have a team,” Malcolm informed, “I have a team, and they’re so good. Dani, and JT, and Edrisa. _Gil_. They’re my team, Doctor Whitly-- not you. I won’t ever work with a monster.” 

“And you really think that they think of you as a teammate, Malcolm? You think they don’t look at you the way everyone else does? Like you’re a monster? Like you’re _my_ son?” 

“The difference is they know I’m not. There’s only one monster around here.” 

“I feel like that was directed at me.” 

Malcolm gave a humorless laugh, “oh, it definitely was.” 

Malcolm paused sharply as a murmur sounded around the room, low and unintelligible, but so clear. He couldn’t decipher who it was, but it was familiar. Malcolm raised his attention up, concentrating on the voice. 

His hand flew to his wrist, covering the burn mark as a shock of pain shot down it. He was feeling pain. Hearing things-- things in the real world. 

His father didn’t look phased, head tiled at Malcolm; studying him. 

“It’s coming back,” Malcolm informed through teeth gritted in pain. The burn mark sent shocks of pain through his arm, and a heavy pain thrummed in his head, momentarily blurring his vision. 

“You’re waking up,” Martin gave a deep sigh, hands pulling from his pockets to cross across his chest distastefully. “You’ve always been such an overachiever. You’ve been forcing yourself up this whole time-- I’m hurt Malcolm, really.” 

“You lied to me,” Malcolm growled, stumbling his way to his father, and poking a finger in the man’s chest, “I’m in a hospital, aren’t I? Gil and my team found me, and I’m safe in a hospital.” 

“It was just a little fib.” The man shrugged. “No harm done. I was just keeping you company while you regained consciousness. Spending some time with my boy…” 

“You lied.” 

The glare his father sent him had Malcolm taking a step back, legs stiff and unsteady under him-- a wave of exhaustion rolling over; the fatigue hitting him like a brick. 

Martin had snapped, angry red in his eyes as he took an intimidating step towards Malcolm, closing the distance Malcolm had tried to place between them. 

“I just wanted my son to stay with me!” Martin snapped in reply, “you try to bury me under medications; you shut me out, Malcolm, but you’re just like me. You’re my son--” 

“I’m nothing like you!” Malcolm hissed hysterically, “I’m nothing like you. I don’t belong with you, I belong with Gil, and my team. I’m not a monster, Doctor Whitly. I help people. You… you kill them. We. Are not. The same.” 

Malcolm staggered, dropping to his knees as another murmur of voices echoed. They were clearing, he could almost understand them-- he gasped as the pulsing pain of his chest and wrist, hand flying to flatten over the coffee burns. 

“Well,” Martin cleared his throat, anger gone and replaced with that indifference Malcolm absolutely despised. He stepped away, shoving his hands back into his pockets as he just watched Malcolm suffer over his nose. “Really, my boy. It’s been fun. We never get to just, y’know, talk.” 

“Screw you,” Malcolm wheezed, collapsing down onto his hands; head hanging between his arms as his body slowly ignited with all the pain he assumed he was in in the real world. Each and every nerve in his body was blinking on slowly, thrumming with pain. 

“I’ll chalk that hatred up to the pain you’re in. Anywho, I’ve been listening in out there,” Martin gestured halfheartedly behind himself, “and I gotta say, you’re in for a rough time when you come too. The offer to stay with me still stands?” 

“I’d rather die,” Malcolm gritted out. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Martin dismissed, rolling on his heels. “It was just an offer. Besides, I’m sure this won’t be the last time I’ll see you here, Malcolm. Not with that crazy hero complex you have and your frankly _worrying_ inability to wait for backup.” 

“I’m no hero,” Malcolm panted out, angling his head up to shoot his father a glare, “I just bring in bad guys like you.” 

“And I suppose that’s where we differ then, isn’t it?” 

Malcolm choked on a gasp as his father dematerialized before him; disappearing from sight with a wave of his hand and a cloying grin. Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth in pain as he blew out a slow breath. 

It was a lot harder to open his eyes than it was to shut them. 

His eyes slivered open slowly. 

He wasn’t in the abyss that was his mind-- no, he was in a hospital room. 

Malcolm was suddenly a lot more tired than he had been with his father, struggling to keep his eyes open. To keep his attention focused on waking. He really did want to wake up, fearing if he let himself fall back under that he’d be greeted with his father once again. 

He was quite literally pulling himself out of some kind of comatose state, if his father hadn’t been lying. It was harder than Malcolm assumed it would’ve been. 

He could faintly hear a beeping of a heart monitor, steady and neutral but still so incredibly loud to his ears. And the _light_ , jeez. 

**Told you.**

Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut for a moment to prepare himself before opening them once again, still wincing at the brightness. The lights above him were off, and the curtains on the windows drawn shut, but it was still too bright for his sensitive senses. 

“Bright?” a voice whispered timidly, nervously. Malcolm angled his head towards the voice, eyes catching on Dani. _Dani_. Thank God. “You with me?” 

“Mostly,” Malcolm slurred. He still felt heavy; due to the concussion, or possibly medications being administered via the IV drip. He couldn’t really tell. His limbs felt weak, and even with the pain relief we were sure was running through his blood stream, the branding on his wrist _burned_. “How… How long was I out?” 

Dani swallowed, and it was only then that Malcolm noticed her hands grasping his, thumb swiping along bruised skin. He could barely feel it, but at least there was some feeling there. Small victories. He forced to his hand to flip in hers, returning the grasp with what little strength he could muster-- her grip tightened around his. 

“In the hospital? About nineteen hours,” Dani informed softly, “Eleven hours in the ICU and about eight hours here in recovery. I’m surprised you’re awake, the doctors estimated you’d be out for anywhere from twelve to thirty hours after they settled you in here.” 

“What can I say?” Malcolm smiled ruefully, “I’m an _overachiever_ , I guess.” 

“You’re something alright,” Dani gave him a small smile in return. Malcolm raised an eyebrow, but Dani just shook her head fondly. 

“That was the longest I’ve been out in years,” Malcolm added, hoping to ease the tension that was stiffening Dani’s small frame. He shot his bleary gaze around the room, catching sight of Gil slumped over on a couch, “Gil’s here?” 

“More like wouldn’t leave… at all,” Dani bit her lip before she shot him a small smile, “and everyone’s been here. You know, for a guy who tells us he doesn’t have friends on the daily, you’ve sure had a lot of visitors.” 

“I have?” 

“Well, there’s been us,” Dani nodded in Gil’s direction. “JT too, of course. Your mother, and your sister. Tally’s stopped by too. Edrisa was a bit too nervous to come around, but I’m sure now that you’re awake it’ll only be so long-- and the barista you wooed the night you went to get coffee dropped off some flowers for you.” 

“Someone brought me flowers?” Malcolm furrowed his eyebrows, genuinely surprised. He could faintly remember the young man’s face-- he’d been pleasant, humoring him and making a fresh pot of coffee for the team after hours. 

Malcolm had told him multiple times while the coffee had brewed that he’d forever be indebted to the man’s good deeds, cracking jokes about fearing for his life working with three tired, overly-caffeinated cops. 

“Name someone who didn’t, Bro,” JT’s voice called from the doorway. Malcolm let his attention drift slowly in his direction, instantly happy to see the older man. His team was here. 

His father was wrong. 

Gil, and Dani and JT were here. They’d found him. They’d rescued him, and they’d all stuck around past what Malcolm expected. His FBI team would never. 

“Jack?” Malcolm tilted his head, pretending the fondly-unimpressed look JT shot him didn’t make him exceedingly happy, “Joshua? Jayden? Uhm... Jeffry?” 

“Nope,” JT gave a good-natured laugh as Malcolm gave him what he hoped was a smile that passed as semi-alright, or, at least as alright as someone coming out of a hostage situation could be, “not even close, Buddy.” 

Malcolm gave a dramatic sigh as he pulled himself up into a sitting position, wincing as he moved. He pushed the pillows up with stiff awkward movements (Dani put him out of his misery and fluffed the pillows for him) barely managing to stay upright long enough to get the pillows arranged before his body gave out in exhaustion. 

“You good?” Dani asked again, eyebrows furrowed in concern. 

“Yes,” Malcolm sucked in a breath through his gritted teeth, “I’m… fine. All good. Just, just a bit sore?” 

“That’s the understatement of the year, Bright,” JT snorted, squeezing the stuffed bear in his hands awkwardly. A stress tick Malcolm had seen before. Malcolm frowned. 

“Yeah,” Dani agreed as she settled back in her chair, eyeing him, “don’t bullshit us.” 

“Sorry,” Malcolm swallowed, his throat dry, “considering everything though, I’m really feeling okay. I mean, there’s pain, of course, and I’m probably on more medications than I can count on said medications but… I’m not locked in a basement with a serial killer anymore, am I?” 

“You’ve got one morbid sense of humor, Dude,” JT rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged on his lips. Malcolm watched as JT stepped towards the side of the room, tossing the small bear in his hands at Malcolm as he went. “Tally picked this out for you, it’s from the both of us.” 

With lagging reflexes, the bear bounced off his chest softly, landing in his lap before he’d even managed to lift his arms up. He picked it up, studying it before smiling, “it’s cute. Thank you.” 

When he lifted his attention from the bear, and found JT again, the older man was setting the card he’d had in his hands on a table already filled with flowers, stuffed toys and other cards. 

“What’s all that?” Malcolm blinked in surprise. 

“Awh, c’mon, Bright.” Dani teased, “you’re our profiler, you really need an explanation?” 

“Well, it’s obviously flowers, stuffed toys and cards. And a balloon. I’m just wondering _why_ they’re here?” 

“You do remember the whole going missing thing?” Dani raised an eyebrow skeptically, “like, you disappeared off the streets? People are happy to see you alive, Bright. We’re happy, and thankful that you’re back. We missed you.” 

“When I got shot in my early days with the FBI, no one but my mother and sister came to see me,” Malcolm looked confused, “and Gil, but he doesn’t count.” 

“That’s offensive,” Gil’s sleep riddled voice called. He hadn’t even opened his eyes. “You children make it hard to get some shut-eye.” 

“Sleep is for the weak,” Malcolm replied hastily, his words followed with a light chuckle at the glance the Lieutenant shot him. Gil snorted his own laugh at Malcolm’s jest. 

Gil looked like he’d aged a couple years in the time Malcolm had been gone, and Malcolm refused to meet his studying gaze. 

The silent question of his mental status was shining brightly in the man’s eyes. Malcolm didn’t know how to console him, because Malcolm wasn’t even sure where he stood. He’d need to talk to Gabrielle before he made any decisions about where he stood mentality wise and he hoped she wouldn’t mind a hospital visit sometime soon. 

For now, though, he just wanted normalcy. To talk, and banter with his team like they were sitting in the Major Crimes Department hunched over a case. He wanted them to… almost forget he’d been kidnapped, even if just for a little while. 

He wanted to push his father, and the kidnapping as far back in his brain as he could manage for the time being. Until he had a proper, trusted outlet who wasn’t a team member, or father-figure/ family member to talk too. 

And, thankfully, Gil caught on, able to read Malcolm like an open book, just like he’d been able too since Malcolm’s early teen years. 

“Says the one who was out for about twenty-two hours,” the eldest snarked playfully as he pulled himself up from the couch, crossing the room to Bright. “Proud of you, that’s the longest you’ve slept in, what? _Years_?” 

“Ah, I was unconscious, not asleep,” Malcolm informed, lulling his head up at Gil with a bright smile, “there’s a difference. I was basically comatose, I’m guessing. Unresponsive to stimuli, which would also mean I had no wake-sleep cycles. Not technically sleep.” 

“Missed that _sparkling_ personality of yours, Kid.” 

Malcolm laughed, and it was like a breath of relief for everyone else in the room. He was okay. He was talking, and being the smartest person in the room. Laughing. Just being Bright. 

Gil’s hand clamped down on the junction between Malcolm’s shoulder and neck, squeezing in a way that conveyed the stress, and relief the older man was feeling-- the things he wouldn’t say until they were alone in the room. “Good to have you back, Kid.” 

“Good to be back,” Malcolm swallowed down the emotion. Gil sat himself in the chair on the other side of the bed, across from Dani, and JT stood awkwardly to the side, looking like he wanted to join them, but didn’t quite know how. 

“You’re making _me_ nervous looming back there, JT,” Dani rolled her eyes. The woman stood up, gesturing to the chair she’d bee occupying. Malcolm, in turn, shifted is leg so there was room for Dani to sit on the foot of the bed if she wanted. 

She raised an eyebrow, but took him up on the offer, gracefully sitting on the bed with her leg tucked under her. JT rolled his eyes theatrically before shuffling over and plopping down in Dani’s chair. 

Malcolm gave her a cheeky smile as he playfully poked his foot against her leg, only to frown to himself when he noticed the discolouration on his skin. “That’s not a nice colour,” he muttered, using all his effort to bend his big toe. It barely moved. 

“We agree with you there,” Dani chewed her lip, hand settling on his foot and bending it around. It was a weird feeling of pain and relief, and he wasn’t sure whether to smile, or wince. 

He ignored the genuine surprise of Dani touching him, letting himself relax back into his bed, feeling the safest he had in a while surrounded on all sides by cops. Not just any cops, his cops; his team. 

He didn’t have much energy, considering how long he’d been unconscious, but he forced himself to stay with them, if only to relish in the fact he was back with them. That they’d found him using his clues. 

They’d have to be a pretty strong team for them to catch the killer with the bare minimum Malcolm had been able to squeeze from Donovan in his time as the man’s play thing. 

“So, you guys caught Donovan then?” Malcolm tilted his head. “If I’m here… you must’ve, right?” 

“All thanks to you,” Gil gave him a stiff nod, forcing a smile Malcolm didn’t believe for even a second. “I really should be angry that you were profiling your way through a kidnapping and feeding us information under you captor’s nose. What if he’d caught on to what you were doing?” 

“Would you have found me without the profile?” Malcolm asked carefully. 

It was a genuine question, and in no way meant to belittle the team’s effort. He was incredibly thankful, and completely proud they’d managed to come to their own completely correct conclusion with Malcolm’s insider knowledge. 

He knew they wouldn’t have been able to crack the case without those last couple tidbits of knowledge from him though. 

They’d all been so incredibly stumped with the MW Slasher case it was almost painful. It would’ve been a miracle for them to get a location from what they had-- Donovan had covered all his bases and kept his murders squeaky clean. He was always two moves ahead of them. 

Malcolm hadn’t even been able to piece anything together. He’d needed those final things he’d gotten from Donovan to complete his profile, sending it off the only way he could-- via the live stream. 

He hadn’t even been very hopeful they were even watching, not that he’d admit that. It was a more of a desperation move, a plead for any help, and it had thankfully paid off, because he was here, and he was alive. 

“No,” Dani was the one to answer after the three of them exchanged a glance. 

“Then I would’ve been a goner either way,” Malcolm shrugged, knowing a reprimanding from Gil was in his near future, “I knew you guys would come for me. I knew you were all clever enough to take what I was giving you, and use it to solve the case-- to catch our killer.” 

“And find you,” Gil added with an exasperated roll his eyes. 

“Right, yeah,” Malcolm gave a breathy laugh, “that too, of course.” 

“But what you said,” JT furrowed his eyebrows, ducking his gaze when Malcolm’s attention drifted to him, “you told him you were sure we weren’t coming for you.” 

“It’s hard to catch a serial killer by surprise when they know you’re coming,” Malcolm frowned, head falling back against the pillow as his gaze drifted up to the ceiling. “Trust… beats fear. I knew you guys were coming for me, I just… didn’t know when. I figured that even if I didn’t… y’know, _survive_ , you’d have what you needed to catch him.” 

Gil swallowed audibly. Malcolm dropped his attention to his lap as Dani’s fingers froze on his foot. It sounded awful, but it was the harsh reality. “But you found me,” Malcolm added to ease the tension. 

It hardly worked, and Malcolm was overcome by the grief his team was feeling. He shouldn’t be, but he was. He didn’t like worrying people, which sounded stupid considering how often they were worried about him. 

“We were almost too late,” Gil exhaled tersely, running hand through his hair and falling back heavily in his chair. He looked like he wanted to reach over and touch Malcolm, hug him and ruffle his hair. Just hold him, but he remained where he was, gaze casting over Dani and JT before he caught Malcolm’s eyes. 

Malcolm hated the looks of grief crossing all their faces-- even though he was literally sitting here with them. He’d survived, but he knew better than anyone how hard the grief of not being able to do anything, to help, sat on one’s shoulders. 

Those ’what if’ thoughts that Malcolm was no stranger too. He hated they were suffering through this. ‘What if’ thoughts were the worst thing to get stuck on, because the alternates were always somehow terrifying. _Malcolm had survived-- but what if he hadn’t?_ Or, _the girl in the box was dead, but what if Malcolm had saved her?_

“But you weren’t,” Malcolm refused to budge. He eyed the team with a frown, “I’m fine--” Malcolm backtracked at the glare Gil shot him, “or… or, I’m alive, I guess. Not, uh, quite fine yet, there’s a lot to process, but I’m still breathing.” 

“Stop trying to console us when you’re the one who was kidnapped,” Dani forced out with a laugh. It didn’t hide the fear in her voice. “The one in the hospital bed should not be the one consoling the group.” 

“Let’s… we’ll save this for when Bright’s a bit more awake, alright? Focus on healing, Kid, not the case. We’ve got it handled.” Malcolm pouted at Gil’s words. 

“I’m sorry,” he sighed. And that, was apparently not the right thing to say, as Dani’s face crumpled ever so slightly. She ducked her attention, hair falling into her face and shielding her eyes. 

Malcolm opened his mouth to say something-- anything-- but-- 

“Malcolm, darling! You’re awake!” 

Oh. 

“Mother,” Malcolm breathed out. A spark of embarrassment lit up his cheeks that his mother was here, and his team was here-- but at the same time his chest grew fuzzy with fondness because _his mom was here_. 

And maybe he was happy to see his mother for a change. Maybe not the frantic glint in her eyes as she marched into the room, almost desperate to get to him, but he couldn’t deny his heart lit up that his mother was around. 

“We’ll leave you to it,” Dani called out, standing up off the bed, leaving Malcolm with a quick pat on his blanketed shin. JT rose after her, following her out the door, and leaving Malcolm with his mother and father-figure. 

This wouldn’t be very pleasant.

* * *

The tag teaming they did wasn’t much fun, Malcolm decided. 

Gil was free to go off on him for recklessness (even though Malcolm had simply been getting coffee this time, but Malcolm was sure he was speaking broadly, instead of just this specific occurrence), and his mother would just nod along with a stern look on her face. 

Gil censored himself for Malcolm’s mother’s sake, and Malcolm was incredibly relieved Gil hadn’t sent his mother into a protective spiral that would’ve been hellbent on making him leave his consultant position with the team-- so, he made sure to send the man a thankful glance. 

Gil turned away from it instantly. Malcolm knew he felt guilty about letting Malcolm thrive working cases, but it was a mutual thing. Gil needed a profiler, and Malcolm was about as good as they get, and Malcolm needed a distraction from everything, and nothing distracted better than murder. 

Malcolm wasn’t unfamiliar with this emotionally-exhausting parenting tactic, of the two working together to scold, lecture, and then smother him in touches, hugs and soft words. They’d been tag teaming since Gil had become a regular in Malcolm’s life all those years ago. 

Malcolm craved the little touches from his mother and Gil. He wouldn’t usually, but after what he’d been through, he couldn’t get enough. It was nice to feel soft, fond touches instead of being manhandled around and threatened with knives and burns. 

His mother’s fingers carded through his hair as Gil ranted on about how dangerous the situation had been, as if Malcolm didn’t already know. 

But then Gil’s hand settled on top of his, almost as if he didn’t know it was there, eyes narrowed and voice an unpleasant mix of angry and downright terrified, and Malcolm knew it was just the fear talking. 

He knew he’d worried them. That they were scared. But there was nothing he could do. What’s done, was done. And Malcolm hadn’t even found this mess on his own, it came after him. 

His mother spoke about his injuries when she took the role of speaker, relaying everything they’d been told by the doctor before the doctor could even make an appearance to do so himself. She carried on, telling him about a good plastic surgeon that could fix his wrist, no matter the cost. 

He’d declined the offer with furrowed eyebrows. 

She given him a glare that said they weren’t done talking about it, but had carried on nonetheless of what Malcolm’s life would look like in his recovery. How he was to stay in bed, and in no way leave the hospital before the doctors decided he was alright to go, where he’d then take even more time off from work. 

There was a dangerous motherly threat in her voice, and Malcolm wasn’t sure he wanted to test her patience right now. He’d let them get all this out of their systems and actually talk it through when he wasn’t on more medications that he could count on his fingers. 

Malcolm didn’t really remember drifting to sleep-- it was to his mother’s thumb stroking his cheek, as Gil paced the room, still lost in his rants. The man spent a lot of time ranting, and Malcolm didn’t have the heart to tell him he was literally repeating himself at this point. 

Gil just needed to rant, Malcolm knew. And he wanted to let Gil get it all out of his system. It wouldn’t be the end of it, but it would lessen the blow down the line. 

He thinks he can remember his mother pressing a kiss to his forehead before leaving the room with Gil following behind her. The man had run his finger through Malcolm’s hair a couple times before he’d left, he was sure-- but it was hazy. 

When he wakes again, there’s another hand on his. 

He’s noticing a pattern. 

He turns his head stiffly, eyes connecting with Dani’s. He blinked in surprise; _you’re back again?_

“Sorry,” her eyes ducked, and it took Malcolm a second too long to realize he’d said his observation aloud. And that it didn’t sound the most inviting; she moved to stand, but Malcolm was quick to grab her hand in his, wincing at the pain. 

“No,” he rasped, “sorry, I just, I didn’t expect it. Please… please stay?” 

Dani eyed him for a second before she slowly sunk into the chair again. He didn’t really know what to say. She seemed to just want to watch him. He didn’t mind. 

“I…” his lidded eyes looked towards her, waiting for her to set the pace of the conversation, “I wanted to apologize.” 

“...apologize?” Malcolm repeated, shifting up slowly, uncertain about where this was going. He hoped she wasn’t about to apologize for him being kidnapped, because that wasn’t anyone’s fault but Donovan’s. He’d certainly not accept an apology for something like that. 

“Yeah,” she nodded, her fingers absentmindedly brushing over his knuckles, “for… I was a dick to you, Bright. When… the night you went missing. You were just trying to be a good guy, and I was too tired to notice, and I snapped at you.” 

“You don’t have to apologize,” Malcolm frowned in surprise, “it’s alright. You were stressed, and I was annoying you and--” 

“Don’t make excuses for me,” Dani shook her head, “please don’t. It wasn’t alright. How we… how we were treating you that night, and… and, well, how we’d been to you since we started pushing ourselves too far. Guess not all of us can run right with little sleep. That’s not how a team treats each other. That’s not okay.” 

“I don’t mind,” Bright mumbled out cautiously, trekking through unknown territory. His dismissiveness had never been an issue before-- not that people really cared how he felt about things to begin with. “That is usually how all the teams I’ve been a part of work--” 

“Yeah, well, the FBI sucks.” Dani snarled, but not at him. In general anger at his treatment before he joined them, “they were awful to you, Bright. That’s _not_ how a team should be. That’s not a team. It’s just people who work together. We’re a team. You’re a part of our team. We… we need you, Bright.” 

Malcolm listened to her, waiting for her to quiet before blowing out a low breath, “why… do I get the feeling this is about something I said?” 

Her silence was answer enough. How her head ducked down and she hid her expression from him. “What did I say? A lot of my experience is pretty hazy, I didn’t retain much-- I think it was the concussion.” 

“You said… that you didn’t have friends… that we didn’t like you and that we weren’t coming for you because your father’s the Surgeon. You sounded so insecure, Bright. Like you… like you really believed we didn’t like you.” 

“I might’ve,” Malcolm didn’t bother trying to deny, “I’m sorry. I was in a dark place, Dani. I didn’t mean it, I promise. I… you’re a good friend. I know you are, but sometimes I get lost in my head.” 

“I just… you were so close to dying, Bright. He was going to kill you, and you were going to die thinking we didn’t care. That we weren’t even looking for you.” 

“I knew you were,” Malcolm shook his head, pulling his hand out from under Dani’s to set his on top. He hoped it was comforting, “and that you all like me to a certain degree-- I still don’t quite know about JT, but I’m getting somewhere at least. I’ve trusted you guys from day one. Gil wouldn’t allow just anyone on his team. I’m sorry what I said hurt you, I wasn’t in a good headspace.” 

“You don’t get to apologize,” Dani huffed a laugh, “especially not for what you said _while_ being tortured. Actually, tell you what, you’re not allowed to apologize for… at least… until you’re out of the hospital. For anything.” 

Malcolm laughed. 

It died down when he noticed Dani’s unsure expression. He waited for her to continue; to get whatever was weighing over her off her chest. 

“I didn’t think I’d get to apologize, Bright. I was in the wrong, and you just let me go off on you for trying to care about me, and then you were gone before I’d even realized I was a jerk to you. And that was only…” Dani swallowed, “…only after it was too late. I just… wanted you to know that we’re friends, alright? We’re friends, and I care what happens to you. I’ll always look for you, because that’s what friends do.” 

“Thank you, Dani,” Malcolm gave a little nod. It was nice to hear-- he didn’t hear things like that often, “and likewise. I know you’ve got… issues with trust, but you can trust me, Dani.” 

“I know,” the woman cleared her throat, “and… and I do, Malcolm.” 

Malcolm’s heart soared at the soft admission. 

“Anyways,” Dani cleared her throat a second time, to bury any additional emotions, if Malcolm were to guess. She’d dropped the conversation just as fast as she’d initiated it. “Did you check out all the gifts you’ve gotten? It’s almost like you survived a kidnapping or something.” 

“Honestly?” Malcolm watched as she stood, moving towards the table of gifts, head lulling after her, “I was pretty out of it. I could barely stay awake when you and JT left earlier. Are you sure they’re for me?” 

“Yep,” Dani gave a nod. “Your mom had a lot of the flowers brought in to liven the place up,” she explained as she eyes casted over the flowers, and yeah, that sounded like his mother, “these ones,” she brushed the petals on a bouquet of carnations, “are from your admirer down at the coffee shop. He reported your kidnapping, gave us useful info too.” 

“I’ll have to thank him then,” Malcolm gave her a light smile. 

“You do that,” Dani teased, “you could always tip him another fifty, _Mr. Moneybags_.” 

“He told you?” Malcolm groaned playfully, “look, I woulda paid anything to get Gil coffee. And jeez, I thought JT was going to pull his gun on me for a second there. Money is no object when it comes to sleep-deprived cops, Dani.” 

Dani laughed, and it was worth it all. Even the embarrassment of being caught tipping overly generous amounts for coffee. In his defense it was after business hours, and the man had done him a huge favor on his own time. 

“Tally sent these flowers--” she touched a rose, “--up before she and JT settled on the teddy bear he gave you. There’s another card somewhere from them too. Edrisa stopped by while you were sleeping with this Dum-Dum lollipop tower thing, but she didn’t stick around long. She’s skittish, didn’t like seeing you so… not Bright? And, your sister brought the obnoxiously big bear with the balloon--” 

“I assumed as much,” Malcolm laughed from the bed, “you know, she did the same thing when I was eleven and had pneumonia. The bear was bigger than she was.” 

Dani gave him a fond smile, before she was turning back to the table. “Gil didn’t think you needed anymore bears, or flowers, so the licorice is from him.” 

“I knew I loved that man,” Malcolm moaned in relief before he could stop himself. A blush lit up on his cheeks, “I mean… the only hospital food I’ll eat is the Jell-O,” he explained bashfully, “and, uh, only the lemon kind.” 

“Why am I not surprised?” Dani teased with a playful roll of her eyes. 

Malcolm shook his head with a laugh. He looked up at the ceiling in hopes of wiping the embarrassment off his face before looking back at Dani with a playfully sly grin, “what about you, Detective Powell? Did you get me anything?” 

Dani turned to him with a raised eyebrow. 

“Just a joke,” Malcolm promised with a half-smile, “you don’t need to get me anything. I’m already overwhelmed--” 

“Too late,” Dani huffed, pulling something small, yellow and green from behind a couple bouquets of flowers his mother had bought. She tossed it too him. He actually managed to catch this one, gaping down at the small parakeet plush toy in his hands. 

“I thought you might miss her, and I saw that in the gift shop when I was busying myself while you took your sweet-ass time waking up,” Dani shrugged with a playful smile, it faded quickly, replaced by an almost self-conscious one, “I uh, I got your mom to unlock your loft for me earlier, and I took her home to pet sit while you’re here… Your mother and sister didn’t seem particularly into taking care of her.” 

“You remembered Sunshine?” Malcolm wasn’t sure what to say. He’d been meaning to ask someone to check on her. He was an awful pet owner, leaving her alone for so long. He supposed he couldn’t really blame himself for being kidnapped, but it didn’t make him feel any less like he’d neglected her. “She’s okay?” 

“Besides missing you? Yeah.” Dani gave him a small smile, stepping closer to hand him a second item. A box of earl gray tea. “She was a bit restless, and her food and water dishes were almost empty, but she’s alright. And I thought you might want some quality tea, your mom was right about the cafeteria stuff, it's awful.” 

Malcolm held to bird close, “thank you, Dani. I… wow. Yeah, my mother despises her for some unknown reason, and Ainsley is not an animal person in the slightest. My mother probably would’ve just hired someone to watch over her, but she likes you.” 

“And I like her too.” Dani was quiet for second, “and maybe when you’re not covered in blisters that she could accidentally puncture, I can get Gil to help me sneak her in for a visit.” 

“You wanna sneak my parakeet into a hospital for a visit?” Malcolm let out an abrupt laugh, “I’d love that. Thank you.” 

“People do it with dogs and cats,” Dani shrugged, giving a laugh of her own, finally moving back to Malcolm’s bedside. “Sunshine should get to see her person too.” 

Malcolm tried not to get overwhelmed at the adoration he felt for his friend. Her thoughtfulness about his bird. Not many co-workers would go those extra lengths. Dani had only met Sunshine the once, but he should’ve known she wouldn’t forget her. 

“Anyways,” Dani gave an anxious clear of her throat, “I should probably get going, your mom and Gil will probably be around again soon. Bold of you to fall asleep during a lecture from Gil by the way.” 

Malcolm let out a surprised laugh before he sobered, not wanting Dani to leave just yet. He’d been alone too long, and he really didn’t want to be again for a while, “hey, uh, you know, I, um, I could really go for a tea?” 

Dani turned towards him, barely a foot away from the bed. Malcolm picked up the box of expensive tea-- the same kind he’d made for them before, “and, uh, and maybe a friend? If you don’t mind, at least? Or--” 

“Yeah,” Dani cut off his rambling with a tiny smile, “sure, Bright.” She took the box into her hand, leaving from the room, only to pause in the doorway, peeking back in, “but… just because I wanna be here to see Gil lecture you for falling asleep during his lecture.” 

“Fair enough,” Malcolm snorted, fingers trailing shakily over the soft fuzz of the parakeet plushie. The more he used his hands, the more feeling returned. 

Dani gave him a toothy grin before finally leaving out the door. 

Malcolm looked down at the bird in his hand, then over at the stuffed bear on the bedside table from JT and Tally. Lastly his gaze settled on the expanse of the gifts he’d been given in his time in the hospital. All unique to his relationship with the sender. 

He didn’t know a lot about friends, but he hoped this fuzzy feeling in his chest would stick around for a while. 

Maybe he didn’t really know as much about relationships as he’d thought he did. Maybe… maybe he didn’t know anything about _true_ relationships at all…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this was good! I probably should've made Malcolm a bit more... not okay? But he's got such a distinct personality, and I like to think he'd be quick to humor as opposed to wallowing in self-pity. He definitely just wants things normal, and doesn't want people worrying about him. Also don't mind me showering Malcolm in gifts because he's well liked, even if he doesn't see it. Also, the Martin and Malcolm subconscious thing I just thought was cool. And I wanted Malcolm to tell him off.
> 
> I will be doing a epilogue sometime soon about whether the killer lived or not, but as for now, that's up to you! Want him dead? He's dead! Alive? Sure! Subscribe to this is you wanna see where I take it, or if you're happy here, thanks for reading! Also, sorry to Edrisa who I couldn't figure out how to write in, and Ainsley, who I'm still lowkey mad at.
> 
> Anyways, lemme know how I did? This was my first case-fic that I actually built my own case. What are your thoughts? Opinions? Was the characterization alright? The relationships? Comments are greatly appreciated! Kudos are also great to see! I'll definitely be working on more PS works, because I love them.


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